Wake Me Up
by Magali1
Summary: Sequel to "Days of Summer." Frankie returns to Dillon after a 'mutiny' in her band and meets up with what might just be her match. FNL characters Tim, Lyla, Jason, Matt, Julie, Tyra, Billy, Mindy, Luke, and Becky all have roles. Tami and Coach appear, alo
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Okay, I'm going to go ahead and post this or else I will never be compelled to finish and I kind of want to finish this fic. Frankie's Story, as I was calling it. You kind of need to read "Days of Summer" to at least get who Frankie is and the relationship between her and Noah. Plus, the epilogue has a teasing hint towards her story in this fic. Enjoy :)

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**Chapter 1**

_They tell me I'm too young to understand_  
_They say I'm caught up in a dream_  
_Well life will pass me by if I don't open up my eyes_  
_Well that's fine by me_

_-Wake Me Up, Avicii_

"What do you say? Can't it just be this way?" Frankie wondered, belting out the lyrics to her new song. She frowned, pausing and leaning back from the microphone, waving her hand as her band stopped playing behind her. She let her guitar swing down across her back, stepping around the microphone and the stand with her music, lyrics, and giant notebook full of ramblings, peering into the sound booth. "I don't like that. It needs to be edgier, change the bass."

"I change the bass anymore Frankie and you're edging into hip-hop territory," her sound engineer, Graham, called through the speaker. He sighed hard. "Why don't we take a break and pick up tomorrow?"

"No." She jerked her headphones off to her neck, reaching to scribble out the notes, fiddling with some more. There, that might sound better. She played the guitar piece for a second, mumbling to herself. "What do you say? Why can't, it, just, be this, this, this, way?" There. It sounded better to her chopped up. She waved her finger a circle. "From the top, I got it." She turned around to her bandmates, some good guys she'd picked up along the way. "Mouth," she called, to her bassist. "Just chop it up."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Mouth, real name Windsor Pennington, a former trust fund baby she'd picked up in New York City, who had a hell of a red beard, so they called him Mouth for some reason, questioned. He sighed. "Frankie, this is a mess. You need a break."

That was the twentieth person who had told her that in a week. "I'm fine!" she shouted, grabbing her guitar. "Let's go again. Come on, from the top!" I'm the one who put this ragtag group together, I'm the one that writes the songs, and I'm the one who decides when we stop and go, Frankie thought, closing her eyes and playing, belting the lyrics again. It was about someone who was begging for things to remain the same, when it was clear that the relationship needed to end. A song of denial. She'd been inspired after her last relationship. It had begun as a sad ballad, but now, now that she'd chopped it up, it was angrier. There, much better, she thought, concluding the song.

Once they finished, she looked back at Graham, who gave a thumbs up. See, she smirked. I told you I could do it. She turned back around, glancing at Mouth, Isaac, and Penny, her bassist, drummist, and second guitar player respectively. None of them looked happy. "What?" she wondered out loud. Her hazel eyes narrowed. They all shifted, giving each other strange looks. She quirked her lip, joking, but…deep down she wasn't sure she was joking. "Is this an intervention?"

Penny, whom she'd picked up in Los Angeles when the two of them were working tables at a coffee shop for free microphone time, back when she was eighteen, shook her head, pale blonde hair floating over her shoulders. "No Frankie, it's not an intervention."

"Yes, it is," Isaac Clarke, whom she'd known for the last few years and had met in Austin at a live music events. He'd been there with his father, who her dad and mom actually knew from high school. Aunt Tyra even dated his dad for a couple years. Frankie didn't really believe that. He lifted an eyebrow, scowling at her. "Yes Frankie, it is an intervention. You're burnt out and frankly, so are we, I mean…" He shrugged. "We have families too."

Mouth shook his head. "No Isaac, say it the way it is." He stared at Frankie. "We have families. You don't. This record is killing us, we're losing the sound, you keep changing the songs every damn day and we're losing money the longer we hold out on a tour. We're going to be forgotten Frankie."

No, we won't, because I'm Frankie Riggins, she wanted to scream. I'm the one who built this band, I'm the one who writes the music, and I'm the one who is giving up my soul for this stupid record, she felt like screaming. It was the second. The follow-up, the one that would show the world she wasn't just some lucky kid who had a few hit singles and a hit record, won a couple of awards, and then would disappear into the history books.

She turned away from them, walking her guitar towards her case, setting it carefully into the velvet lining. Two guitars, her electric and her acoustic. Both were gifts from her stepfather, but only one came from her real father. Tim had gotten her the acoustic as a gift, letting her think it was Ethan until Ethan finally told her the truth a couple of years ago. Stupid Tim was her first thought. She hated it when her dad went all martyr on her.

Her second thought was that they were probably right. She was beat. Exhausted. Mentally drained. Whatever a doctor wanted to call it, she could probably justify it. Frankie closed her eyes, locking the guitar case. She slung the patterned strap over her shoulder, putting the case on her back like a crossbody bag. "I'm not doing this because you're forcing me," she stated, her hands up. She gestured to the book in her hands, glaring at them. "But I'd like to see the three of you write the songs that we write. All of you are here because of me!"

"And we're not saying that we aren't," Isaac said. He tapped his drumsticks into his open palm, shrugging. He was the most sensitive one of the group, so they usually used him to speak up when the three of them wanted to talk to her about something. He shrugged, reaching to push his fingers through his strawberry blond hair. It was curly and always reminded Frankie of a Chia pet. "We're just saying that yeah, we may be here because of you, but we may not be here soon…because of you."

Ouch. Frankie pursed her lips, her eyebrows furrowed. Fine. Have it your way. She cocked her head, her braid falling over her shoulder. "You know…all three of you can go to hell for doing this. I'm not doing it because of you."

Penny and Mouth exchanged a look. "Frankie, we can write some songs, maybe give us a chance," Penny whispered. She gestured to Mouth. "We've been working on some duets…"

No duets. We're a band. "Gridiron is all of us," Frankie whispered. She gestured to them all, turning her index finger in a circle around all three of them. She jabbed it into her chest. "But I'm the songwriter. I'm on all the liner notes. None of you wanted to write when I brought it up. So fine, write some songs, but if we're all in this together as you say, then we're all singing it together."

"Just take a break Frankie," Isaac whispered. He sighed hard. "And we can figure this out in…in a couple of weeks or something. You just need to stop. Chill out. Go back to Texas."

Go back to Texas. Fine. I'll go back to Texas. Frankie grabbed her bag, shoving her overflowing notebook into it. She slung it over her shoulder, glaring at them all. "I'm not forgetting this," she warned, walking out of the recording studio. She ignored Graham, calling to her that he'd seen a lot of bands do this and a break would be good.

It was a coup. A mutiny. And a total oxymoron, she thought. My band, my songs, but they all wanted to do this together…and they all wanted her to go away so they wouldn't be forgotten? None of their arguments made sense. She felt her fingers itch. I want to paint.

She put her bag and her guitar in the back of her Camaro, sliding into the front seat, reaching to push a button on the dashboard to call the one person she really needed to talk with. It rang once, a female voice answering. "Intersection Sports Management, this is Amelia, how can I help you?"

"Uh…Noah Street."

"Mr. Street is indisposed at this time, may I take a message?"

Indisposed? What the hell? "What is that supposed to mean?" Frankie demanded. She scowled. "Tell Noah that his little sister is on the line."

The secretary or assistant or whomever stuttered. "Ah…I didn't know…wasn't aware Mr. Street had…"

"Who is it?" she heard a muffled voice ask. Frankie yelled loudly so he could hear. "It's Frankie you dumbass, answer your stupid phone! That's why I called it!"

There was a click; did they just hang up on her? She gaped, staring at the dashboard, driving as quickly as she could through Los Angeles traffic, zig-zagging in and out of cars on the 405. The phone clicked again and Noah cleared his throat. "You could really not yell at my assistant, she's only been here for a week, she has no idea what kind of psychotic mess you actually are."

I'm going to pretend you didn't say that. "How come it didn't go to you? I thought this was your private number."

"It is, but lately I've been having my calls screened."

Could only mean one thing. "So is Willa stalking you now?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Noah immediately followed with. "And don't say I told you so! That makes it worse."

"And that's why I say it, duh." Frankie smiled, leaning back in her seat, zipping down the highway. She dropped her aviators onto her nose, sighing hard and headed east. Towards I-10. She didn't even bother going back to her apartment. All she needed was already in the car. Maybe she'd stop at an art supply store on the way. "So what are you doing today?" Hearing his voice instantly made her feel better.

"I'm working Frankie, what do you think I'm doing? Shouldn't you be doing that? My mom wants your new single before it gets released too, by the way. She also says thank you for the sculpture, it was a hit at the auction for the children's hospital."

"That's why I gave it to her." She didn't want to talk about her band's little mutiny. Her mind was still racing with ideas, notes, and lyrics. She'd have to stop eventually to pour them out, before they disappeared. In fact…she slammed her hand on the horn. "Don't go crazy, but hit record on your phone."

"What?"

"I'm in my car, I can't record from my phone, hit the button so I can record this thing."

Noah sighed; he'd known her long enough to know when she was had to get something out. He told her to go a second a later, so she sang out the tune, a soft harmony, kind of like…like fairies and elves, she thought, thinking of some words that might go with it. It was kind of mischievous, if a harmony could be mischievous.

When she finished, Noah came back on the line. "Sounds kind of like something you'd hear if you were running in a forest or something."

"That's what I was going for. I'll play it for you later, send me that sound byte."

"Of course master."

"Shut up." They went back and forth for a few more minutes, until Noah had to go to a meeting. "You should use your law degree for good and not evil," Frankie said; for the hundredth time. She smiled, glancing in her rearview mirror; Los Angeles was long behind her by now. "I'm just thinking that if you went to Hah-vahd…"

"Harvard, pronounce the R."

"They don't pronounce the r."

Noah sighed dramatically. "I'm leaving you now. Are you going to Texas or not? Maybe I'll stop by."

"The last time you were in Texas was for Steve's wedding. Have you talked to him? He never answers my calls."

"Because you harass him. Yes I've spoken with him, he's my best friend." Noah sighed again, interrupting her before she could start talking about her cousin and his best friend. Lately she'd been wondering if everyone in the family was ignoring her, because she hadn't spoken with any of them. "I'll talk to you later," he said. He cleared his throat. "Take a break Frankie. Breathe or something."

Maybe going to Texas and staying with my parents wasn't the best option for that, Frankie thought, disconnecting the call without saying anything further. They weren't married or anything like that, they didn't need to say they loved each other after every phone call. She knew he loved her and he knew it too. She slumped in her seat, hitting her foot harder on the accelerator.

The closer she got to Texas, the happier she'd become and the less she'd care about her stupid band, she vowed.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:**The first chapter was a set-up, this provides much greater context. Enjoy :)

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**Chapter 2**

Ah, Texas, Frankie thought, allowing the top down on her Camaro so she could let the wind blow through her hair. It was late fall, but still breezy and slightly warm. Perfect temperature, she thought. Great weather for football, she thought, driving by the football stadium and seeing the team out practicing. She briefly caught sight of her grandfather in his golf cart. "God," she mumbled, shaking her head. "I can't believe I drove around in that thing for an entire summer." Several summers, actually. She'd stop and see him later, right now she wanted to get to the house. She headed west, driving by several houses which had been built on land around her father's, but he'd ensured that he still wouldn't have any neighbors, buying up plots of land around his, keeping his nearest neighbor over a mile away in all directions.

Hermit. Frankie pulled through the open iron gates, narrowing her eyes at the script 'R' in the center, if they were pushed together. That was a new addition, last time she was here the gates were just...gates. "What is this a compound?" she said out loud. She'd have to ask him about that. Her Camaro came to a silent stop beside her mother's Audi SUV. "I still can't believe Dad lets that here," she said. I can't believe I'm talking to myself.

Frankie left her guitar and art stuff in the car, walking up to the front door. She didn't bother knocking, walking right inside and into the kitchen, opening the fridge and grinning at some Yoo-Hoo she'd left when she was here back in June. "Nice." She cracked the cap, taking a sip and walking into the living room, which was clean and straightened up. Where was everyone? Mom's SUV was in the drive, so was Dad's truck.

"TJ!" she yelled, raising her voice a little louder and clearer. Since his Cochlear implant the year before, TJ could understand almost all sounds, just not hard or loud ones. The day he heard her voice for the first time, really heard it, Frankie thought she'd died and gone to heaven. He was so happy. Lyla had cried for about six months straight. Where was the little guy? Oh, wait…Frankie stopped in front of the calendar on the fridge. "Kindergarten," she said, tapping it. He was five now, that's right. But still, that had to mean her mom and dad were at least wandering around. She called out again. "Mom! Dad!"

"Frankie?" her dad yelled from upstairs. "What are you doing here?"

"Dropped by for a visit." She rolled her eyes. They were both upstairs. Frankie stayed in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, yelling again."What are you guys doing?" I don't want to know.

Her mother chimed in. "Nothing!"

Yeah, my ass you're not doing anything in the middle of the damn day. "You both are gross!" she yelled. She laughed. "Having a nooner!"

Their feet pounded down the stairs a moment later. "We are not having anything," Lyla said in a normal volume, walking into the kitchen wearing a Dillon Panthers blue polo shirt with khakis and tennis shoes. She looped her ponytail through a baseball cap, her hands going to her hips. She reached for Frankie to give her a hug. "What are you doing here baby? Did we forget you were coming or…"

"I drove out," Frankie said, crossing her arms. She didn't want to get into her exhaustion and need for an escape. Or the band's mutiny. She made a face at her father, who made a face back. They didn't hug and kiss hello. Lyla swatted her elbow, walking around her to the counter, rearranging some things. "No, I thought I'd come paint or something. Inspiration."

"Aren't you recording?" Tim asked. He yawned, his jaw cracking. He rubbed at it, looking up at the ceiling. "Think it's about time the soupcatcher goes Lyla."

"But that's your winter beard."

"I know, but I'm sick of it."

Lyla rubbed at her neck, which had beard burn. Frankie rolled her eyes. "You guys are gross," she said again, leaning on the counter. She sighed. "When does TJ get out of school? I'll go pick him up."

"Two," Lyla answered. She turned quickly, her eyes widening. "Oh my gosh, that'd be great. Can you please do that? I have to do a stupid press conference on Aaron Taft's ankle."

Frankie narrowed her eyes. "Isn't that like a fifteen-year old? You're doing a press conference? What is he, the second coming of Peyton Manning?"

"To some in Dillon, yes, but Frankie this is the way of the world here, you know it and I know and we just go with it." Lyla looked over at Tim, who was still rubbing at his beard, looking in the mirror. "Hey, Narcissus."

Tim turned, frowning. "Who?"

"Did you pay attention in English class?"

"Did you know me in high school?" Tim fired back.

This could go on forever, Frankie thought, leaving both of them to verbally copulate. She went into the living room, falling back onto the couch, reaching for the remote. Two, so that gave her about two hours before she had to pick up TJ. Her heart flipped in her chest; she loved that little guy so much. It was going to be so good to see him. Just what she needed. She turned on the television, her eyebrows lifting at the image of a relatively hot guy on local news. "He's purty," she said.

"He's the new sheriff," Lyla said, leaning over her to knock her feet off the coffee table. She pointed to the floor. "Feet on floor and honey, I'm sorry to be so blunt about this…but there's no place for you to sleep." She smiled a little, shrugging. "I'm sorry."

What? Frankie turned off the TV, swinging her body around to gape. Lyla looked extremely apologetic, but Frankie knew her mother looked that apologetic when she stepped on an ant. "Excuse me?" She pointed to the closed guest bedroom door. What did she mean nowhere to sleep? "But I sleep there!"

Lyla walked over, pushing open the door. It was now an office. She shrugged at Frankie's shocked look. "I'm sorry honey, but I needed an office after I took the job at Dillon."

"For what?! Ankle tape!?"

"To see patients at home for physical therapy," Lyla corrected. She shrugged, picking up her messenger bag. "I have to get back to the stadium. I'll see you later this evening if I get off work early." She kissed Frankie's cheek, giving her a quick hug. "Oh I missed you! Love you!" She walked over to Tim, kissing him quickly. "Bye babe." Frankie made a gagging sound at the pet name for her father. Lyla shot her a scowl.

"Bye," Tim called, waiting for the door to close. He waited about five seconds before he took off running at the couch, vaulting with agility over the top and crashed down, opening his can of Coke with one hand and grabbing the remote with his other.

"Ah!" Frankie yelled, trying to push him off. It was her spot! "Mine!"

"Nope, too late."

"Don't you have to work?"

"The beauty of being your own boss," Tim replied, changing the channel to some fishing program. He hit his head against the pillows, his voice quiet. He kept his gaze on the television. Serious talk. "What are you doing here Francesca?"

Crap. That makes five times in my life you've called me by my real name. She slumped back onto the opposite end of the couch, not meeting his eyes. Instead, she focused on the fishing program. Since when did he ever care about fishing? She released a deep breath, her gaze falling to her hands. "I just…needed a break," she murmured. She sighed. "Some time to think."

Tim turned the television off, tossing the remote onto the coffee table. He turned his head, his hands folding over his stomach. His eyes narrowed, focusing on her. Frankie tried to look at him, but it was hard. It always felt like he was x-raying her in these moments. He usually pegged her emotions accurately; it was just a matter of if he'd tell her. He cocked his head again, whispering. "You're trying to do too much Frankie."

I'm trying to just…do what I do. And do it best. She tucked her hair behind her ear, looking down at her hands again. Some of her bangles fell back towards her hand, clinking on her wrist. She removed the clinking ones, leaving behind her leather watch cuff and some of the woven bracelets she'd had since she was a little kid. "I'm taking a break," she murmured again. She finally looked at him. Don't ask again Dad. "I don't know how long I'm going to stay…or where."

"Don't listen to your mother, the couch is all yours."

I need more. Somewhere else. Maybe I'll just go camp out in the boonies. She pushed her hand through her hair. Some of the pink streaks from the last awards show she'd attended were still visible. She folded her hands together in front of her lips, lifting her gaze to the painting above the fireplace. The blurry house and land. She'd wanted it to be blurry, because sometimes people didn't know what home was. So it was blurry. It was what you made of it and sometimes you could see through the blur. When she was fourteen, she'd spent a summer with Matt Saracen in Chicago, learning from him. He was a teacher at the Art Institute, but told her that she was by far his most challenging student. "Why," she'd wondered, about halfway through the summer, when he'd commented on that.

Matt had looked at her, smiled sheepishly, and shrugged. "Because most students don't know how to paint or what to paint or where to focus. You do and you're only fourteen. It's a little freaky."

Freaky. Frankie quirked her lip, getting up from the couch. She walked around behind it, looking down and seeing that Tim was already asleep. "Narcoleptic," she mumbled. He could take a nap just about anywhere with any amount of noise. She went out to the Camaro, removing one of her portfolios and took it back inside. She unzipped it, removing a new canvas from the paper, setting it against the fireplace. Lyla always liked it when she painted people. So in a moment of missing family, she'd painted TJ, smiling out of the blur behind him.

Guess I better go trolling around town and see if there was anywhere for her to sleep. She left her father to sleep off his nooner with her mother, climbing into her Camaro and driving away. She opened it up on the empty roads, whooping as the wind blew through her hair and stung at her face, dirt kicking up all around her. And she continued to whoop, until blue and red-flashing lights began to whoop behind her. "Shit," she cursed, hitting her blinker and moving over to the side. It didn't really matter. Once she told him or her that she was Frankie Riggins, she'd get out of the ticket. Frankie leaned on the door; looking behind her and watching as a tall, lean guy climbed out of the cruiser behind her. He wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a button down plaid shirt with a Stetson.

Can you get anymore Texan, she wondered. She looked in the rearview mirror, practicing her smile. She waited, until he stopped beside her. "Do you know how fast you were going back there?" he asked.

Frankie frowned; that wasn't a Texan accent. If anything, it sounded kind of…foreign. British, maybe. What the hell? She folded her arms on top of her door, beaming at him. She pushed up her sunglasses. "You know, I'm not quite sure, I was just admiring the view…taking my afternoon for myself…guess I let this puppy get carried away from me," she drawled, sticking syrup into her voice. Ugh, it made her want to puke, but anything to avoid a ticket.

The deputy, or at least, she assumed it was a deputy, since he got out of a sheriff's vehicle, reached into his back pocket. "If you let it get away from you, maybe you shouldn't be driving a car like this," he said.

Excuse me!? Frankie scowled. "What?"

"Just saying, if you can't drive it, maybe you don't deserve it. License and registration. You were going 85 by the way."

"There's no one around!"

"License and registration."

You're an asshole, Frankie thought, grabbing her bag and removing her license. She flicked it towards him and opened up the glove compartment for her registration, passing that over as well. Guess he wasn't going to take the sweet girl routine. She reached her finger up, tapping the license. "I know it's an out of state license, but the car is registered in Texas….my parents live here, I'm visiting them. I'm on break from recording." She smiled again, shrugging, like it was no big deal. "Frankie Garrity…I know it says Riggins, but it's a stage name." She pursed her lips, smiling again. "You might have heard my music…"

"I have." The guy passed back her license, smiling at her. "I don't care for it."

What!? Everyone liked her music! Frankie took the license. She snorted. "You're not going to run my name?"

"You're Francesca Riggins, you're the daughter of Tim and Lyla Riggins, of 3202 Manor Lane, you live in West Hollywood, California when you're not speeding through Dillon, Texas, and you happen to be a singer of relatively awful music. You've been arrested twice for disorderly conduct and you think you can flirt your way with the new sheriff in town to get out of a ticket and when you can't get your way by flirting, you play the fame card." The deputy tilted back his Stetson, removing his aviators.

Oh crap, Frankie thought, recognizing him from the television. "You're the sheriff," she blurted out. She dropped her eyes to his belt, where the star badge was set against his gun. Wow. She cocked her head slightly, sliding her gaze sideways. At the other gun. Also nice. She finally glanced up. "What's your name again?"

"Sheriff Ryder Cafferty."

Cafferty? That name sounded familiar to her. She squinted; she couldn't be too sure, but he kind of looked like one of her father's friends. "Luke Cafferty?" she blurted out.

"That would be my father. I'm Ryder. You're Francesca. Now that the introduction is over…" Ryder ripped a complaint ticket from the pad in his hand, passing it to her. He grinned, showing off straight white teeth. "Have a nice day ma'am. Try to keep this nice vehicle under control. The speed limit is 65, in case you didn't know, which you clearly did, but didn't care to follow. Good day." He tapped his Stetson, turning and walking away.

Frankie stared at the ticket. Speeding, dry roads, nice day…ugh. She threw it aside, climbing out of the car and walking towards his. "Hey!"

"Get back in your car ma'am."

"Hey, I'm talking to you! Whoa!" Frankie yelled, as he suddenly had her arm, which was reaching out to tap him on the shoulder, and was spinning her around to throw her against the hood of the car. She laughed, her cheek against the cool metal of the Dodge Charger's hood. "Ah, well you know if you wanted me in this position, you're going to have to buy me dinner first, I don't give it up for free." She scowled. "I also don't really like this position, but…"

Ryder sighed dramatically. "You know Francesca, I told you to get back in your car and you continued after me. How could I know what you were going to do? You do have arrests for disorderly conduct."

"That was for protesting against political causes, not chasing after stupid sheriff's deputies!"

"Stupid?" he laughed.

"Yes, you're stupid! And what's with that ridiculous accent anyway? Welcome to Texas! We speak English!" she shouted, as he lifted her up, walking her towards the back of the car. Her eyes widened. What the hell? All her bravado faded as he opened up the passenger backseat door. "What are you doing?"

"Arresting you, now hush."

"Hush!?" What in the ever-loving hell was happening to her right now? Not that she had ever learned from her big mouth, Frankie kept going as he shoved her into the hard plastic back seat of the Charger. She leaned against the grate, pressing her cheek to it. "Let me out of here! What charge are you arresting me on? You know my best friend is a lawyer! He'll get me out of this!"

"I'm not sure what I believe less," Ryder said, climbing into the driver's side. He turned the engine on and pulled out from behind her Camaro. Her beautiful red, shiny Camaro, full of her entire life of painting and her guitar and music. Son of a bitch! Her guitar was still in there! Ryder drawled, glancing in the rearview mirror. "That you know a real lawyer or that you have a best friend."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She scowled. "What's the charge?"

"Threatening a law enforcement officer, we'll go with that."

"What!?"

Ryder reached for the radio, lifting the mouthpiece up. It crackled angrily. "Dispatch this is Sheriff Cafferty, bringing in a disorderly. Make sure the women's cell is clean for me, thank you. Over."

Frankie couldn't believe this. This was mortifying. She kicked at the backseat. "Hey! If someone steals my guitar and paints, you owe me. That guitar was a gift from my father when I was twelve!"

"So that was last year?"

"You're an asshole. How did you even get elected anyway? You have the disposition of a cold fish." He was actually really hot; why couldn't she get over that for some reason? The accent was killer too. Her cheek pressed to the grate. I'm going to have a checkerboard pattern on my face when I get out of here. "So what's with the accent? It's not Texan."

"Neither is yours."

"I grew up in Virginia."

"I grew up everywhere. Now hush."

Hush? He was the only person other than her mother who had used that phrase. Maybe it was some sort of overseas thing, who the hell knew. Frankie nodded towards him, her wrists still cuffed behind her. Her shoulders were starting to ache. This was going to suck when she got her guitar back out. She slumped in the seat, working her wrists while she spoke to him. "So you're the new sheriff in town, huh? How long have you been here?"

Ryder didn't respond, turning off the dirt road onto a main one, leading them towards the Carr County Courthouse. Frankie got a chill down her spine as they drove off towards where the jail was located. She had a flashback to when she was seven and she'd told her dad she wanted to go to the jail to see what it was like. She'd never see him so angry with her. It wasn't until she was ten did she learn that he'd been in jail for a year. Something he'd wanted to hide from her. She tossed her hair out of her eyes; I should have braided it this morning. It was all over her face and shoulders, catching in her army jacket's buttons and zipper. "So Ryder Cafferty. Your dad is Luke and your mom is Becky. Are they back in Dillon? You know my Aunt Mindy talks about them." Not a lot, but she did. Sometimes. Frankie was trying hard to remember what Mindy had even said. "Cat got your tongue?" she asked, trying not to wince visibly as she felt her wrist pop, moving in the handcuff.

Ryder glanced at her; she stilled her movements. "You know you are by far the chattiest person I've had back there and that includes the time when I had to transport meth addicts from a house I busted back in the Army."

Ah, an Army brat and a service boy himself, Frankie thought, returning to her movements. "So were you enlisted or officer?"

"Officer."

"Nice. I hear that they're assholes. You're fitting with the stereotype perfectly." Frankie felt her wrist pop free, sighing in relief. Ryder immediately darted his gaze towards her. She stilled again. The car stopped in the back of the sheriff's office and she waited until he opened the door, reaching in to remove her. She dropped the handcuffs into his hands, grinning at his stunned look. She turned, walking backwards towards the door, her hands held up. "Don't handcuff someone who once spent an entire summer in them trying to break free. For fun." I'm a weird one, she thought on behalf of him, hopping up the steps and into the sheriff's office, smiling at the intake deputy. "Hello," she said. "I'm Frankie Riggins, would you have arrested me for talking back to you after undeservedly receiving a ticket for going 85 in a Camaro in a 65 zone?"

"What color is the Camaro?" the guy asked.

"Red."

"I wouldn't have given you a ticket. I'd have asked to drive it."

"Thank you!" Frankie exclaimed, gesturing towards the deputy, who was smiling at her. His nametag said 'Paul.' She smirked at Ryder, who was still glaring at her, holding the open cuffs in his hand. "Paul here thinks I shouldn't have gotten the ticket."

"Paul is an idiot," Ryder snapped, which shut up a laughing Paul. He pushed her towards an empty cell. "Get in. Who should I call to come get you?"

"Tim Riggins," Frankie chirped. She draped her arms through the cell door, arching an eyebrow. "Noah Street, Esquire is my attorney. You can contact him through Intersection Sports Management. Beware his assistant, she's an idiot." She pursed her lips, an eyebrow lifting. Ryder stood, waiting for her to continue. At least he wasn't ignoring her anymore. "Do you like football? My cousin is Steve Riggins…"

"I know who your cousin is, we run patrols by his house when he's in town," Ryder said. He reached to push her fingers back behind the bars, his words clipped in a very British way. "And I don't believe you have learned your lesson Ms. Riggins, regarding bribery." Maybe blackmail, she thought, narrowing her eyes as he sauntered off, chuckling at whatever he found so funny about her predicament. She scowled, turning around and staring at the single cot and the silver toilet. Disgusting. Frankie fell backwards against the wall, looking down at her red Chucks. Maybe I need to upgrade my footwear. She'd been wearing them since she was six.

This is going to make for a fun story to tell Noah, she thought, reclining back onto the cot, drawing her knees up. She stared at the ceiling, her arms behind her head. The ceiling could really use some new paint. Maybe a jail stint would spark some new music. She closed her eyes, humming Johnny Cash.


	3. Chapter 3

**An: don't worry, it seems a bit eccentric right now but the fic gets a lot more serious in the next few chapters, especially when we get to Ryder's story.**

**Chapter 3**

I think I'm going to kill my father if he doesn't come here in…Frankie made a move to check her watch, groaning. They'd taken it from her a few minutes after putting her in the cell. She kept her head on the cot, staring up at the ceiling. She'd gotten through at least the beginning of one song. This was a bit of inspiration. She closed her eyes, intent on taking a nap, when she jumped up at the sound of the door squeaking open. She sat up, looking at Ryder, who was leaning against it, beckoning her forward. "My dad here?" she asked, jumping up and grabbing her jacket, walking out of the cell, Ryder following behind her.

"Hmm."

What was that supposed to mean? Frankie emerged in the waiting area, finding her father standing and looking out the window towards the prison across the street, his hands on his hips. Uh-oh. "Um, hey Dad," she said.

He turned, his face impassive. "Come on," he snapped. He looked over her shoulder at Ryder, who was handing Frankie the bag with her effects inside it. "Thanks Ryder."

"No problem Mr. Riggins. Just ah, keep her from trying to talk to back to any other law enforcement in the future when she can't flirt or bribe her way out of a speeding ticket," Ryder said. He shot Frankie a shadow of a smile. She cocked her head; did he have a sense of humor? Amazing. "And we'll call it even."

Frankie grabbed the bag of effects, removing her car keys, some change, and her bracelets. She threw the plastic bag at Ryder, who still had that ghostly smile on his lips. In the light, without the sunglasses or Stetson, she could see that he had an angular face, a faint blond beard and his hair was a rich oak color, with sun-streaked highlights. He was a few inches taller than her, which wasn't hard, because she wasn't very tall. He was very lean, but his plaid flannel shirt clung to his biceps and revealed strong forearms. He looked like a damn farmer. She poked her finger into his chest. "This is not over."

"Francesca," Tim snapped again. He scowled. "You're just getting out of jail for threatening a cop, do you really want to go back inside?"

Not really. She turned away from Ryder, flouncing out and ignoring his call that he'd see her around. My ass you'll see me around, she thought, climbing into Tim's truck. He got in beside her. "Can you believe that crap?"

"No, I really can't. How old are you again? By the way, you owe me a grand for your bail."

"I'm good for it."

"I know you are, which is why we're going to the bank right now."

"Dad, my car is on the side of the road! We have to go get it!"

"Flirt or bribe your way out of it," Tim snapped. He hit his head against the headrest, cursing. "We have to get TJ. Damnit. Wait until your mother hears about this, she's going to have a field day and I don't really want to deal with her."

"You don't want to deal with her? What am I supposed to say to her?" Frankie was about to say that when she made Lyla mad, it felt like she'd just kicked a puppy, when her father interrupted, his voice quiet. She kept her mouth shut; when Tim spoke softly, you listened. He wasn't a very loud angry person. She felt a chill creep down her spine, sitting up straight.

Tim draped his arm over the steering wheel, staring straight ahead. His sunglasses shielded his eyes from her view, so she couldn't tell what he was thinking. "You know Frankie, this was really cute on you when you were thirteen, but…last I checked you were twenty-five." His voice dropped again, to a bare whisper. "It's not so cute anymore." He kept his voice thready. "And you know how I feel about you not following the law."

Shit, shit, shitty, shit! That's right! She wanted to die. So she slumped farther back in the seat, not realizing. The jail. That's why he was looking out the window at it. Damnit. She swallowed hard, whispering. "I didn't think…"

"No, you don't think."

Ouch. Her eyes fluttered shut, listening to silence. Now they would sit. Tim would say nothing and neither would she. It could last for decades if they allowed it, but…well his disappointment felt worse than anything. Worse than Noah blowing off her phone call the other day. Worse than her band telling her that she needed to stop, because she was dragging them down. Frankie finally turned her head to look at him in profile. Even near fifty, her father still looked like he did when she used to visit him during the summers. That seemed like such a long time ago. After she moved to Dallas when she was fourteen, she saw him almost every other weekend. It was like Christmas came every weekend. "I'm sorry," she whispered, not looking at him.

"Don't be sorry," Tim said. He swallowed, audibly, pulling the truck up in front of TJ's elementary school. He parked, turning in his seat to face her. Frankie still didn't turn to look at him. He sighed. "Just be…I don't know…just not how you've been. It's not really you and I don't…I don't know what you want me to do Frankie. I can't do stuff for you anymore. You're not a baby. You're a grown woman now."

She climbed out of the truck; I don't want to hear this anymore. Over the hood of the truck, she saw him looking at her, slightly disappointed, although he'd never say it. "Dad," she sighed.

"Forget it Frankie," Tim said, flashing a quick smile. He shoved his hands into his pockets. "You give me the money and maybe you'll have learned your lesson. Grow up." He walked to the school, disappearing inside.

She remained outside, leaning against the hood, her eyes closing. I hate when he's mad at me. Inside her pocket, her phone rang. She reached for it and removed it, staring at Isaac's phone number. Of all people she didn't want to talk to him. Although it made her think of something. She opened up her phone, scrolling through to the sound byte she'd had Noah send her. She played it, her eyes closing. "Giving tree," she mumbled, thinking of a children's book she'd read as a kid. "I give, give, give, until I'm nothing but a stump," she mumbled, lyrics beginning to pin themselves in her mind as she played the sound byte over and over again. It would work.

I have to get back to my car and write this down. Maybe play a few notes. She looked up when a bell rang, children streaming through all available doors. Tim emerged a moment later, a little boy running right by him, eyes wide and his dark hair bouncing on his shoulders. "Hey!" she yelled, running to him, laughing.

"FRANKIE!" TJ yelled. She gasped at how well her name sounded; his speech therapy must have been going very well.

"Oh I missed you," she cried, hugging her little brother, squeezing him tight and lifting him clear off the ground. She turned to him, his hands going a mile a minute as he signed and spoke at once. It was hard to focus sometimes, because he was speaking and she was trying to understand what he was saying, but at the same time follow the signs, almost like subtitles. She let him go on, something about building a boat in class, and glanced over to Tim, who was standing a few feet from them, his hands on his hips. He was smiling, but it didn't meet his eyes. I'm sorry Dad, she thought, turning her attention back to her brother. Let's just forget this entire afternoon even happened, she hoped.

* * *

"Why are you here?" TJ demanded, signing as he spoke, rocking back and forth on his heels, standing on the porch as Frankie sketched him from her perch on the porch swing. He moved from his spot, but Frankie looked up, signing for him to stay put. He signed back. "Talk!"

"Okay," she laughed, setting the sketchpad aside, holding her arms out for him to walk into them. He crawled up into her lap, his head resting on her shoulder. Very carefully, she touched her fingertips to his thick dark hair, careful of the implant on the left side of his head. She spoke carefully. "You like hearing now, don't you?"

TJ tilted his head up, reading her lips, nodding. He signed back 'yes.' He picked up her sketchpad, pushing his sticky little fingers through the pages, crinkling the corners as he turned it. Frankie would never tell him to stop or be careful; it wasn't important enough. He spoke slowly. "Did you draw these?"

"I did," she replied. She pointed to one of him, pointing. "You."

"Me!" he shouted.

She brushed her lips on his forehead. "Yes, you." She tapped his shoulder, getting his attention again, smiling. Without speaking, she pulled her middle finger and ring finger down, holding her thumb out and her index and pinkie up. TJ smiled, replying back that he loved her too. "Get out of here," she ordered, nudging him to the house. "Do your homework!"

"What's that?" he asked.

Ugh, seriously, just go, she laughed, picking up the sketchpad. Frankie dragged her charcoal over the sketch she'd been working on, smearing her fingers over it to shadow in the light on TJ's face. Matt was always very clear with her that shadows were important.

Matt. It seemed to hit her in a blinding flash. Of course! Matt! Perfect! Frankie fumbled in her pocket for her cell phone, hitting one of the speed dial buttons and lifted it to her ear. She grinned when he answered. "Hello Maestro."

"I told you to stop calling me that." He paused. "Wait, this is Frankie, right?"

"Of course its Frankie."

"It's been a long time, what's going on? I got the painting you sent us, Julie has it in Lori's room, and it's beautiful. I mean, I don't want to be rude or anything, but you know, teacher talking here…the shadows could use some work, I mean, you know, everyone does their own, but…" Matt stuttered, trying to critique her work, but still be nice about it. Only Matt, she thought, listening to him stumble over his words for a moment, finally sighing. "It's nice work though. What's going on?"

Frankie got up from the porch swing, walking into the house and dragging her fingers around the counter; dancing them onto the fridge and pretty much on anything she could touch or play with, walking around the house. "So I'm back in Dillon and apparently my mother deciding to move back completely means that the last bedroom is full of physical therapy equipment and I need a place to paint…"

"Uh-huh."

"So I was thinking…" she drawled, rolling her eyes upwards. Please don't make me say it. "If you don't mind…"

Matt chuckled. "My house is your house, key is under the mat. You'll have to call the electric company and water company to get everything turned back on. I haven't been there in forever so I can't be sure what's growing around it either."

Thank God. At least she'd have a place to her own. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she exclaimed, jumping up and down. She sighed in relief, pressing her hand to her chest. "I owe you one Matt."

"Um, yeah, about that, so Julie's been on my case, but I think you owe me some dealer fees actually." He hurried quickly. "Not that you have to pay me immediately…"

Damnit, I do have to pay you dealer fees. She nodded, reaching into her bag and removed her wallet, ripping off a check. "How much do I owe you again?"

"Um…" Matt mumbled, but she wasn't sure what he just said. He sighed again, when she asked him to speak up. He mumbled again. Speak, she almost screamed at him. "Fine!" he yelped. "You owe me ten grand in dealer fees."

Shit. "Fine," she said, scribbling out the amount on her check, wandering to the desk to grab an envelope. "Give me your address." After she scribbled that out, she dropped it in the tray of mail to go to the post office, since her parents lived on a rural route and didn't have a mailbox. "It's on its way."

"Thanks. So what brought you to Dillon?"

I don't want to talk about it, she thought, digging her toes into the hardwood. "Um, I should probably go. I'll let you know what I find at the house." She disconnected, putting her phone back in her bag, looking up when she heard a squeal. She leaned against the desk, looking into the living room, where Tim had grabbed TJ and was spinning him around and around in circles.

Frankie tried not to let the sadness creep into her heart; it should be a happy moment. TJ was happy, he was healthy, and he had his father in his life. She looked down at her hand, curling her fingers into a fist. Maybe she didn't get that, but TJ had it, so…so she shouldn't be jealous or upset. She looked up again, watching them spin for a few more seconds until they crashed onto the couch, TJ laughing hysterically, Tim joining him a second later. She grabbed her bag and keys, walking to the front door.

Just because she wasn't supposed to feel jealous or upset didn't mean that sometimes she did. It would be best to just leave. She should go check on Matt's old house anyway.

She got back into her Camaro, driving out and away; only this time she actually kept her foot off the gas for much of the drive to the old little bungalow on the outskirts of Dillon. It wasn't too far from Noah's grandparents' old house, actually. She parked the Camaro in the driveway, climbing out and going to the backyard, where she found a rusty key in the mouth of an equally rusted out ceramic frog. Frankie walked around to the front door, opening it up and coughing at the musty smell. "Whoo," she mumbled, closing the door behind her.

Dust was on every available surface thorughotu the house; much of the furniture had been taken away, but there was some pieces still pushed into the corners, covered in dirty old sheets. Perfect dropcloths for painting, she thought, whipping one off the couch. There was no TV, which would actually be perfect; television distracted her.

"Ah!" she called. Acoustics were a disaster, she wouldn't be able to really practice, but it was quaint enough that she could go from one room to another, making one all for painting and the other for music. Frankie walked into the kitchen. It was also empty. No appliances but an oven and stove. She'd buy a minifridge, it would suit her purposes fine.

Frankie opened all the windows and doors, to get some air inside. She called to turn on the electricity and water, cleaned out the sinks and tub once the water was on, and began to tug out the furniture. One of the bedrooms was completely empty, but the other had a twin bed pushed in the corner, the mattress still in plastic. She found sheets in a dresser, putting them on the bed and began to move her things inside.

I have to get some more clothes, she thought, dropping a couple of bras into the dresser drawer. She closed the drawer and turned around, picking up her paint kit and brought it into the living room. Matt had already turned the room into a sort of painter's den and she found easels and some blank canvas stored in a closet. He'd ripped up carpet and the house was entirely hardwood and tile, to more easily wipe up paint.

Frankie felt exhausted from opening the house up, but she also felt itchy. She set a canvas on the easel, opening up her kit and began to put everything onto an old table that Matt had out back, which she knew he'd used for paints. She pushed it against the wall and began to put everything out. Brushes, cans, tubes, and turpentine pots.

"I'm ready," she announced, tugging on an old t-shirt and shorts. She took off her shoes, hiding anything that could be construed as nice into her bedroom. "Now," she said, reaching for a brush and began to mix paints on the table. "I am ready."

About an hour later, she had some of the design done for the painting she was working on, an idea forming in her mind for something with her brother. Using the same blurred imaging she used; she'd focus on it more from a silent perspective. Muted. Deaf. Like everything else in her life, her art came from her heart.

She had the music going pretty loud, ironically, as she painted, carefully moving along the sides to create her blurred effect, and didn't notice when the front door opened until she heard footsteps behind her. She spun, screaming and throwing her paintbrush in the air.

Ryder shot his hand out, grabbing it before it fell onto the floor, not that it would matter, since she had the cloths laid out everywhere to collect paint drippings. "Careful," he said.

Frankie slapped her hand on the speakers, turning off the music. "What the hell?" she snapped. She grabbed the brush, wanting to shove it in his face. Paint that stupid look right off. She threw the brush into a jar of cleaner, turning back around, her arms crossing. "You threw me out of my moment, now it's going to take forever to get back to it," she said.

"We got a phone call into the station that there was loud music and movement at a house that is supposed to be vacant. When they said there was a red Camaro parked out front, I figured I'd take the call," Ryder said, looking around the house. He frowned. "This is supposed to belong to Matthew Saracen. Are you breaking and entering now too?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I think the only one of us who is breaking and entering is you. Ever hear of knocking? What if I had a gun?"

"It's Texas, everyone has a gun. Question is, is your gun registered?"

What an idiot, thinking he was being funny with her. She sneered. Or at least, she tried to sneer. "I live in California, I don't have a gun." She removed the brushes from the cleaner, getting a clean cloth and beginning to wipe them down before setting them in a stand to dry. While she worked, she spoke, still greatly annoyed at his presence in her house. Well, Matt's house, but for the foreseeable future, it was her house. "You know, I could call the police on you. You walked in without making it known that law enforcement was entering. And you don't have a search warrant." She glanced over her shoulder. "I think you're violating my rights."

"The California in you is showing."

"And you're not answering me," she said. She turned, leaning back against the worktable, her arms crossing over her chest, scowling. Ryder was still dressed as he had been earlier, but no Stetson this time. "Where's your tall white hat?"

"Don't mistake the tall white hat for someone who actually is the guy that wears the tall white hat," Ryder drawled, looking up at her through thick dark eyelashes. He smirked. "I tend to avoid being the white hat in most situations."

"Then you shouldn't be a cop." Frankie squinted; his gaze darted towards her painting. She scowled, walking over and turned it around. "This is private work, you don't get a sneak peek."

Ryder walked over to some of the paintings that had been in her car, flicking through them. He picked one up, holding it aloft. She'd painted it before the 'mutiny.' When she'd been working on only an hour or so of sleep each night. When she'd been...coping through something. It was psychotic; tons of dark colors swirled all together, angry and frustrated. It was an outlet, which painting was for her. He glanced over her shoulder. "How much?"

Huh? She shrugged, going into her bedroom and taking off her painting clothes, not bothering to close the door. "What do you mean how much?"

"How much for this? You do sell these, don't you?"

Frankie turned, in her black lace bra and underwear, jumping when she saw him standing in the doorway. He didn't look at all surprised to find her half-naked nor did he seem abashed in any way. She steeled herself, her cheeks turning pink, feeling a bit self-concious as she tugged her clothes on. The bravado could only hold for so long before she dropped it. She answered his question. "I sell now and then, yes."

"Dylan Garrity."

That would be my pseudonym, she thought, looking up and shrugging on a tank top, her feet going into flip flops. She left her hair piled on top of her head. "I don't know who that is," she lied, reaching a cuff bracelet. She felt naked without them when she wasn't painting.

"You're not as clever as you think you are, everyone who has a brain knows that Frankie Garrity and Dylan Garrity are the same person. Which is Frankie Riggins." He arched a thick blond eyebrow. "You have three different personalities." He held up the painting again, repeating, a bit more forceful this time. "How much?"

I could have some fun with this if I wanted, she thought, crossing her arms over her chest. She shrugged a slim shoulder. The earrings hooked into her earlobes bounced when she shook her head. "I don't know. How much do you think its worth?"

Ryder narrowed his eyes, but didn't say anything. You're not an art connoisseur, you're a small-town Texas sheriff, she thought, scanning him up and down. He did have a slightly regal air about him, but she pegged that to arrogance. Maybe even the slight British accent. "I'm not going to guess how much this costs, how much would you sell it for in a gallery?" he asked.

I really could have some fun. Frankie walked by him, breaking eye contact. She leaned over her portfolio, moving papers around, emerging with an old invoice she used to use. She picked up a pen, scribbling in while she spoke. "Dylan Garrity is my name, yes. So is Frankie Garrity. An agent told me when I put my band together that Riggins just didn't flow with a band like Gridiron, so I went with Garrity. I didn't want to be the singer and the painter, so I created the other world for myself. If you asked me which one I prefer, it's painting." She finished the invoice, passing it towards him.

Her fingers brushed over his, causing a chill down her spine. Weird. She took a deep breath, slowly releasing it, dropping her hand down to her side, waiting for his reaction after reviewing the invoice, which he did so carefully. He lifted his eyes from the paper and glanced at the painting. "Well?" she asked.

"I'm debating if it's worth it."

"All I want is an apology for arresting me."

He sighed, dramatic, looking back at the painting. He rolled his eyes, droning. "I'm sorry I arrested you."

Ha! So the painting was worth it! But she still wanted to have some more fun with this. After what he'd put her through earlier, he totally deserved it. She smirked. "You know that didn't sound sincere."

Ryder scowled; this was pissing him off. I better be careful or I'm going to get my hand bitten off or something. She toned down a bit, reaching for some paper to wrap up the painting. "I have just the place for that," he said, watching her fold brown paper around it.

"Yeah, where? Your front hall?"

"Bathroom."

Shut up. She rolled her eyes, taping the back shut, turning and pushing it against him. To her surprise, no to her shock, he grabbed her by the front of her tank top, jerking her up to her toes and planted a kiss on her lips. She stood against him, her mind blank. She really didn't know what was happening, just that one moment she was folding paper and the next she was getting kiss. What a nice kiss it was too, his lips were very soft for someone so hard and…well mean. She was about to open her mouth up, to return what he was giving her, when he broke, pushing her back. Ryder lifted his eyebrows, taking the painting and smiling. "That's twice I'm made you speechless today." The smile twisted, smirking. His voice was husky and his dark eyes were heavy-lidded. "Something tells me that's a record."

No…no record, wait, what was happening!? Frankie stared, still unable to speak, her fingers touching her lower lip, which was swollen from the brusqueness of the kiss. She swallowed hard. "Why did you do that?" she mumbled, scowling. Thrown off guard, which she didn't want to be around this guy.

He waited a second and shrugged. "Dunno, just wanted to see what it would be like." He walked to the front door and turned again, shoved his sunglasses on his nose and flashed a grin. There was a dimple in his cheek, she suddenly realized. "Have a nice day Frankie. Thanks for the painting."

Sure. No problem. Happy to help. She touched her lips again, looking down at the floor, her free arm crossing over her stomach. Wow. Frankie tossed her hair over her shoulder, glancing back at the door, her hands falling to her hips. That was probably…no, it wasn't probably. That had to be the hottest kiss she'd had. Not that she'd had many; she was very choosy. I need to tell someone, she thought, turning and rooting for her phone. She unearthed it beneath some paint rags on the worktable, hitting her best friend's photo and dialing him. It rang a few times and Noah picked up, breathless. "What do you want? I'm in the middle of something."

"Sounds like you left her on the bed."

"Not the bed, the couch, she's another Victoria's Secret model Frankie, do you know how hard it is to get not one, but two in my lifetime to go out with me? Now what do you want?"

"Why did you answer the phone?" she demanded. She arched an eyebrow, muttering. "Cause' if I had a Victoria's Secret model on my couch I wouldn't have answered the phone."

"Frankie, this has become like the easiest lay ever, she already told me she doesn't want strings attached and this can just be a fling. Can you believe that? Now what do you want?"

She grabbed her keys and bag, slinging it over her shoulder and walking out towards her Camaro, closing the door behind her. "I have a question about men. If you grab someone and kiss them for no reason what so ever and it happens to be the hottest kiss on record and then the guy walks out, what does that mean?" She waited for an answer, shrugging. "Hypothetically, of course."

"Of course. No one would run up and just grab you and kiss you Frankie."

"Ouch."

"Not being mean, but…" Noah sighed. She could see him rolling his eyes, probably standing in the foyer of his fabulous loft apartment, with all its chrome furniture and stainless steel appliances. "Um, well I can't speak from experience, but my guess is that he wanted to see what your reaction would be. How did he act when he left?"

"Smirking."

"You surprised him, you didn't react how he thought, he's retreated to reassess how insane he must be to even think of kissing you. Now can I go?"

"Wait, hang on, so what am I supposed to do?"

"Do you want to go over and jump his bones?"

Frankie climbed into her Camaro, her eyes wide. Holy shit. She wanted to go find Ryder and jump his bones. "Um…no…"

Noah snorted. "Liar. I've given you enough time. See you later."

"Bye. Use protection." Frankie threw the phone aside, her hands wrapping tight around the leather steering wheel. She wanted to strangle him. In fact, she wanted to strangle the entire male species. Her eyes narrowed and she wrinkled her nose. She had to get to the bottom of this. How dare he just kiss her and walk out? That was something she would do because she was flighty and tended towards insecure. It's all a false act, she thought sometimes, throwing her car into reverse and spinning out of the short driveway. She had to find out where Ryder lived. That meant she needed to talk to the one person in her family who would cave the instant she asked him a question.

Uncle Billy.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:**I edited the last chapter to add that it seems really eccentric/surreal right now and it does for the next couple chapters in some places, but it starts to grow more serious with Ryder's POV, specifically the next couple of chapters. Frankie is extremely quirky and I felt as I started writing her story that she needed someone who countered that in an almost even quirkier/comical fashion. I do hope that readers are enjoying this :)

* * *

**Chapter 4**

There were two houses people in Dillon spoke about with reverence. Two houses that out of towners wanted to catch a glimpse of, after they heard about where they were or who lived there. The first was her house, Frankie thought, driving up a curving driveway towards a house on an actual hill. She loved her house. Her father built it with his two hands, he'd added on here and there through the years, and it was really very beautiful. The complete realization of a dream, she thought.

The second had considerable security compared to her father's house. She'd had to think for a few minutes on the password and get past the gate house. It was only because enough people now knew where Dillon was and wanted to see the place that churned out three of the NFLs greater talents in the last several years. She parked her Camaro in front of the large porch, climbing out and looking up at it.

It was Steve's house, which he also had built, and which resembled something out of the English countryside. It was pure stone, with shutters and at least three chimneys because it had three fireplaces. There was a large veranda off the back, an in-ground pool and a guesthouse.

Damnit, she thought, scowling at the guesthouse. She should have remembered that and asked to stay there instead of at Matt's old place! Oh well. It'd probably work out better for her at Matt's house, because she could roll out of bed at two in the morning and paint naked if she felt like it.

She went up to the front door, hitting the button on the side of the double doors, glancing over her shoulder and scanning down the winding driveway towards the street. The house was set out on about 100-something acres, halfway between Dillon and Midland. It was Steve's hideaway from Dallas, where he had a small house by this house's standards.

The door opened, Gracie stepping back. "Hey!" she exclaimed, flinging her arms around Frankie's neck. She jumped up and down. "What are you doing here?! Steve said you were in town!"

"Yeah, I thought I'd drop by and check on my favorite cousin, it's a bye week, right?" Frankie stepped into the house, grinning and reaching for Gracie's stomach, but she paused, looking up. "Can I touch?" Boundaries, Frankie. Some people had them.

Gracie proudly poked her stomach out, which Frankie thought caused her a lot of exertion. "I'm huge!"

"You look like you ate a big lunch." Gracie was whip thin and very…well long was the word Frankie used to describe her. Never verbally. She was a dancer and it seemed she was all leg and arm, constantly flowing and moving, making even bending over to pick something up from the floor seem like a graceful dance step.

At seven months, she was about a normal person's month five, Frankie thought. She touched Gracie's stomach delicately, her eyes widening when there was a swift kick to her fingertips at the disturbance. "Wow," she laughed, dropping her hands. "That's intense."

"Yes, he doesn't like people touching him. Kind of reminds me of Steve actually," Gracie laughed, patting her belly. She walked by Frankie, leading her through the large, open floor plan. "Steve should be outside with the rest of his crazy family."

"Oh yeah, who all is here?"

"Um, Billy and Ryan for sure. You know Scott is on some excursion to the Arctic."

Frankie froze in the kitchen. "Seriously? I thought my dad was kidding."

Gracie shook her head, reaching into the cupboard to remove a glass. "Nope. He got on some National Science Foundation's arctic excursion thing so he could test one of his magnetic…whatever things he's working with and inventing."

Steve was using magnets to do something with shrinking tumors, if Frankie remembered right. He had invented something on accident while attending Rice and someone at MIT picked it up, bringing him into the fold. He was working on some sort of Master's degree in biomedical engineering. Maybe even a Ph.D, she wasn't sure. Whatever he was doing, he got all the brains of the family.

Except for me, she thought, thinking of her perfect SAT score. Mom about cried herself to sleep when I gave up all those full rides to move to Los Angeles to pursue music, she thought, wincing in memory. "You want anything to drink? I'm obsessed with chocolate milk, this kid is going to give me diabetes with the amount of sugar I want to consume on a daily basis," Gracie said, squirting what had to be half a bottle of Hershey's syrup into a glass of milk.

"That's a lot of chocolate."

"Wait until you see what I put in it, apologies in advance."

"You're not going to put in anchovies or something are you?" Frankie remembered her mother's cravings. TJ had a fondness for pickles and peanut butter sandwiches, which Lyla had consumed daily. Frankie was sure that Tim hadn't eaten during the entire pregnancy because he was so grossed out.

Gracie shook her head, removing a bottle of Tabasco sauce from the fridge. She shook it and dropped about twenty drops into the milk. "It's a sweet and hot thing, I don't know. Maybe I'm an alien."

"Maybe you're pregnant with one, my cousin is the father after all."

"Probably," she laughed. Gracie tossed her shiny blonde hair out of her eyes, beaming. "So what are you doing in town? Does Steve know?"

"Who knows, I'm sure someone has got to him by now." News traveled around this town like the plague. Around her family even worse. She swore sometimes that her father and Billy could communicate telepathically. She knew for damn sure that her parents could. Of course that might be a parent thing, she thought, frowning slightly. She shook her hair from her eyes. "So where are they? Outside you said?"

"Yes, probably, let's go find them." Gracie carried her chocolate milk and Tabasco sauce outside through the large sunroom onto a veranda. Whoever had decorated the place had a good eye for the color, choosing soft, warm shades and contrasting it with different patterns. She waved her hand. "Sorry about the mess, but I really don't do housekeeping."

"This place is spotless, you should see my…" Frankie thought about the house she kept in Los Angeles. Condo, really. It was a sty. What little was in there. It was a place to drop her head at night. Otherwise she was in her art studio down the street. Or the recording studio. Or somewhere else in the world, writing and painting. "Nevermind."

They walked out of the house, dropped off the veranda, and took a winding stone path through pretty landscaping and trees, emerging in what Frankie called "Steve's Den." It was literally like a den. It was kind of like a garage, but he always left the front open, revealing where he played around with his cars. There was also a massive flatscreen television, a pool table, and a wet bar.

It was like the inside of a man's head, Frankie thought, stopping at the edge of the entryway, her hands going to her hips. On the large sofa in front of the television, Ryan was stretched out with his dirty boots on the armrest, while Steve leaned over the back and Billy was in an armchair beside them. All had their attention fixed on the screen, watching some sort of car race. Gracie rolled her eyes, drawing back to call out to them, but Frankie lightly touched her arm, shaking her head. She smiled, knowing this was wrong, but oh well. She crept silently around them, reaching for a remote on the bar. She lifted it up and flicked it off.

"What the hell!?"

"Who did that!?"

"He was going to win!"

All three turned around, glaring at her. "Turn it back on!" Billy bellowed. Ryan threw his empty beer can at her, missing by like a million feet, and Steve glowered, taking the same hands-on-hips stance that she'd learned from her father. She mirrored it, flashing a smile. "You guys love me."

"Not as much as Formula One! Turn it back!" Ryan yelled.

"Wow, you mean you guys aren't watching redneck racing?"

"No, we're cultured," Billy said, before belching. He patted his chest. "Whoo! Been working on that one for awhile."

"Good one Dad," Ryan said.

You all are nasty. Frankie frowned, looking at Steve, who took the remote from her, turning the television back on. "Where is the fourth misfit?"

No sooner had she asked did her father round the corner, TJ following and carrying a box of juice, holding a pack of apple juiceboxes under his arm, while Tim had a six-pack. "And the fun can now begin! Garrity thinks that we're looking for paint samples…" He trailed off, arching an eyebrow at his daughter. He waited a moment, before removing a bottle, offering it towards her. "Want in?"

"No, I want to talk to Billy."

TJ set his juice on a stool in front of the bar, tugging on Tim's coat, signing quickly. Tim nodded, glancing towards the couch. He set the beer down, signing in response. TJ took off and dove over the back of the couch, tackling Ryan, laughing loudly as Ryan began to tickle him. Frankie smiled, her arms crossing her chest. She glanced at Billy, who grumbled, getting up from his chair. Tim shot her a curious look, but kept his opinions to himself on her requesting to see her uncle before him.

I don't tell you everything Daddy, she thought, leading Billy out of the man cave and towards the pool. "What's up Frankie Pankie?" he asked, tugging on a lock of her hair.

"Don't call me that."

"Your dad called you it."

"When I was three." She leaned against the iron-gate around the pool, stretching her feet in front of her. "Question."

Billy shrugged, looking out at the house and then back to her. "Might not have an answer. What's up?" He snapped his fingers. "Hey, did you know that that Landry guy was in town recently with his kid? Thought you were dating him?"

Isaac, my drummer? She felt her heart clench. "I don't want to talk about him," she mumbled, tossing her hair from her eyes. She sighed, thinking of the actual topic at hand. Ryder Cafferty. Where did he live, Uncle Billy would know, but I wonder how I can ask this without sounding like a stalker... Frankie thought for a second, narrowing her eyes when her uncle started to watch ants crossing in front of his shoe. Okay, she didn't have a lot of time. "So um, you know Luke Cafferty?"

"Yes, I know Luke," Billy said, cocking his head slightly. He reached to rub at his head, replacing the blue Dillon Panthers baseball cap. "He's my offensive coordinator. Why?"

"So his son?"

"The sheriff."

"Yes, the sheriff," Frankie laughed. Good Lord, she sounded like a stalker. Or a teenager wanting to ask about the boy she liked. I don't like him! Ugh. She swallowed hard. "So he pulled me over this morning…"

"Yeah, Tim said he had to get you in jail."

Push through; he wants a rise out of you. Frankie swallowed again. "So I was just curious…you know where he lives or something? He bought a painting from me earlier and…uh, I have another that I think he might like. Wanted to stop off and show it to him."

Billy squinted. "Huh?"

What part of my question was so hard to understand? My family is full of morons. How did Steve, Scott, and I manage to get out of it alive? Ryan didn't count because he stapled his hand to a wall a few days ago, according to a text from her dad. Which of course, he had to take a photo of before calling someone to unstick Ryan. "I just want to know where he lives so I can drop a painting at his house," Frankie repeated. In really easy to understand idiot speak.

She was about to ask if he wanted her to ask in monkey language, but Billy sighed, shrugging. "I don't know if telling you is a good thing."

Frankie arched an eyebrow. "What?"

"He's got some enemies out there."

"Enemies? What are you talking about?" He's a small-town Texas sheriff. There are no enemies out here. Unless you support a competing football team. Or play soccer.

Billy sighed hard. "Look, he was in Afghanistan, okay? He's done some things that I think he wants to forget and so I don't feel like…" Okay, that was it, she'd had it Frankie leaned forward, pushing him against the iron gate, her hand gripping his, pressing her thumb into a pulse point. He winced. "Ow ! What the hell are you doing!?"

"Frankie what are you doing to my brother?"

Frankie glared sideways at her dad. "He won't answer my question and he's being stupid! Is that good enough?"

Tim sipped his beer, lifting a shoulder and listening to Billy's yells that he was the worst brother ever if he allowed his daughter to beat up on her favorite uncle. He sipped his beer slowly, surveying the situation for a moment. Frankie arched her eyebrow again, waiting on a response from her father while Billy scrambled around beneath her; he could try as hard as he could but she had a freakishly strong grip. Her father finally sighed. "Sure." He turned around, returning to the man cave.

"Let go of me! Is this how nieces treat their uncles?"

"It's how Riggins nieces treat their Riggins uncles, or have you just walked into this family?"

"True," Billy sighed, shaking his head. She let go of him and he straightened up, tugging on his blue polo shirt. He placed his hands on his hips again, glancing her direction. "Fine." He shook his head. "He lives by high school. Ask your Mom what the address is; it's her old house. Keeps going up for sale every couple of years." He made a face. "It has bad juju."

"Probably because it was the first house that Dad ever helped rehab."

"He doesn't do that anymore." Bily scowled. "He never works anymore."

Yes, because Tim had vowed that once Lyla came into money, he would become a stay-at-home parent. Joking of course, but sometimes, since Lyla had her NFL money as he called it, he actually followed through on his threat. Right now he wasn't working, choosing to work with TJ. He was one of the only people who could get TJ focused enough for his speech therapy. Frankie tossed her hair out of her eyes again, crossing her arms over her chest. "So Mom's old house?"

"Yes. Have no idea where it is."

"But you live in Dillon."

Billy tapped his head. "I got a lot of thoughts. Sometimes have to make room."

"Yeah, you have one thought and need to push it out to make room for the next." Frankie turned around, walking back into the Man Cave. She kissed her brother's head, signing to him. _Do you want to come with me back to the house?_

TJ shook his head and replied. _No, Dad said I can stay with Aunt Gracie and Uncle Steve tonight. I brought my toothbrush and everything._

_You're spending the night? _Frankie knew what that meant. It meant that Mommy and Daddy wanted a night alone. She rolled her eyes. She gave TJ a small hug. "Be good," she said out loud, signing that she loved him and would see him later. She tapped her dad on the head, leaning down and speaking quietly so only he could hear her. "Don't drive home if you have too much. Call me."

"I'm not going to have too much. Where are you going?" Tim asked, looking up at her. He glanced at Ryan, who was throwing darts willy-nilly. Billy was trying to jump and miss the dart as Ryan threw. Steve was recording with his phone. "That's got a good chance of not ending well, you should probably leave now."

"Yeah, I'm on it." Frankie walked with TJ back to the house, finding Gracie reading _What to Expect When You're Expecting _in the sunroom. "Get ready to call 911," she advised.

"Oh I'm already prepared," Gracie drawled, setting the book down. She smiled warmly at TJ. "Hey buddy, did you already eat dinner? I've got a real craving for pizza. You want some?"

"Yes!" TJ answered, signing in agreement.

Frankie smiled, giving TJ another hug and kiss goodbye, leaning in to do the same with Gracie. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"I need to go to the mall for some new maternity clothes, do you want to come with me?" Gracie asked, opening up the fridge and began to remove organic veggies for what was sure to be some sort of vegan-type of pizza. TJ was already making a face when she removed turkey sausage and veggie pepperoni.

"You can't just go up to I don't know, a size two?"

"Shut up. I'm getting huge. The baby is hitting a growth spurt. So are you coming or not?" Gracie asked again, biting into a piece of veggie pepperoni. TJ made a face at his, but ate it anyway.

"Fine, I'll come. I'll pick you up."

"No, I'll pick you up, I can't fit in your car."

"Will you bring the Porsche?" Gracie sometimes drove a Cayenne that Frankie was in love with and had contemplated buying herself, but she'd fallen in love with her Camaro instead.

Gracie smiled, shrugging and biting into another piece of pepperoni. "I'll think about it, but hey…" She turned serious, walking towards her. She looked over her shoulder at TJ, who was no longer looking at them, so he couldn't read their lips or focus on what they were saying. She turned around, a frown crossing her smooth features. "Maybe sleep on this, okay? Don't go right to wherever you're about to run off towards."

She smiled quickly, whispering. "How did you know I was running off somewhere?"

"You just seem like you're on a tear about something and…" Gracie shrugged. "It's never good to go into things half-cocked. Just wait and see if it's worth it tomorrow."

Well that made sense, but Frankie never did what made sense. She gave her friend a hug and kiss, patting her stomach idly and left the mansion, climbing back into her Camaro. She sat still for a moment. Sleep on it. Don't go flying off. You surprised him. Fine Gracie, you win. She put the car into gear, the engine barely making a sound as she curled away from the curb, driving back down to the street.

Fine, she'd sleep on it. If only because she realized that she didn't want to give Ryder Cafferty the satisfaction of knowing that he'd gotten to her. So she went back to Matt's house, parked her car, and headed inside. This time, with no music, she painted. And painted. Every emotion she felt about stupid Ryder who she barely even knew but seemed compelled to know and about her stupid band and career, she painted it onto a canvas. Until the last thing she remembered was falling asleep, still in her paint clothes.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:**This one hints at some of the more serious undercurrents of the story. Sorry for the quick update, I wanted to get to Ryder's POV. Enjoy and as always, feedback is welcome :)

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**Chapter 5**

"Hey Mom, I fixed the faucet, so you should have to actually turn hot for hot water and cold for cold water," Ryder said, wiping his hands on a rag and dropping it into a laundry basket on the floor. He leaned over the couch, smiling down at his mother, who was reviewing a paper. He grinned. "Hey, you hear me?"

"Hot for hot and cold for cold, I'm not stupid," Becky answered. She sat up on the couch, smiling at him. "Thank you sweetie, give me a kiss."

"Mom!"

"Kiss, kiss!"

He made a face, but bestowed a kiss on her cheek, patting her knee and straightening back up. The house that his parents lived in used to belong to his grandparents, whom he'd never met. Well, he'd met them, but he couldn't remember them. They'd died before the family had moved back to the United States. Dad's military career was definitely the main focus at that time. Becky smiled, patting his face. "Such a good boy." She sat up quickly; sometimes Ryder forgot how young his mother actually was. She was eighteen when he was born. Becky tossed her dark curly hair from her eyes, tying it back with the band around her wrist. "Thank you for fixing the pipes, your father could have been working on that all day before he finally got it. Or maybe never would have gotten it."

"Nice confidence in me Sproles," Luke said, coming in from outside. He was filthy, head to toe covered in mud and smelled like cow dung. Ryder wrinkled his nose. He still didn't know why his father had officially retired from the military just to return to doing something he'd long said he'd hated while he was growing up.

"Get out of my house smelling like that."

"Come on, it's just a bit of cow poo."

Ryder rolled his eyes when Becky screamed, as Luke tried to grab her and kiss her. He sighed, reaching for his toolbox. "I'm leaving. I have to go back to work. Some of us do have jobs."

"I work," Becky complained, pulling away from Luke. She pointed to a smear on her white t-shirt. "This better be mud."

"Can't guarantee it."

"Ew! So gross! Hey wait, Ryder, hang on, where are you going?" Becky pulled off her t-shirt, throwing it at Luke, who used it to wipe his face. She ran towards him, thankfully wearing a tank top beneath her white shirt. She reached for his arm, turning him slightly towards her. She smiled again, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Where are you going so fast?"

"Back to work," Ryder said. He smiled briefly. "Mom, I do have a job."

"So do I."

"Yes, I know you do." Becky had gone back to school after they'd moved back to the United States, when Ryder was in college. She'd gotten a teaching degree and taught at the elementary school. He couldn't imagine his mother as a teacher, but then he realized she'd actually be pretty good at it. She was very persistent; his mother, and often could win an argument with a little kid by sheer will. Or she annoyed the kid to death, always having an answer.

Becky cocked her head; her curly hair was like springs all over her head, pulling out of the ponytail she'd tried to tame it into, unsuccessfully. Her voice dropped into a familiar 'concerned mom' tone. "You seem upset, why?"

Ryder shrugged. "Not upset."

"I heard you arrested Frankie Riggins the other day. Why would you do something like that?" Becky's eyes softened and she stepped closer to him. "Honey are you having some more of the…issues?"

Mom come on. The issues have nothing to do with my job. He also wondered when the Frankie thing would come up, given how close his mother was with the Riggins family, Mindy in particular. Ryder rolled his eyes, trying to blow it off. "Who told you? Mindy?"

"Actually Tim."

"When did you talk to Tim?" Luke asked, appearing beside her, frowning. "I didn't know you were talking to Tim."

Ryder chuckled when his mother rolled her eyes. "Okay, put the jealousy away Luke, he's been married for like fifty years to Lyla! By the way, I'm married to you, in case you didn't already know." Becky turned away from him, smiling again. "Come on Ryder, tell me. Do you like her? Is she cute? She looks cute from her pictures, but those are in magazines and they're never real. I can't believe I haven't met her yet…I mean, I saw her when she was like five, but other than that, I just can't…"

This was going to go on forever. Ryder said goodbye, hugged and kissed her without getting cow dung on him, and left the farmhouse, climbing into his truck. He drove away, meandering through Dillon until he reached the hardware store. He had to return some of the parts he'd gotten for the sink that turned out he didn't need. He climbed out and headed inside. After he'd done what he'd come to do, he went down the aisles to look for a new wrench set. His was getting too old. He stopped in the aisle, frowning as he saw Frankie piling up a basket with spray paint. A smile pulled on his lips and he slowly approached her. "Up to no good?"

She jumped, a can of hot pink spray flying from her hands. "Damnit!" Ryder caught the spray in the air, passing it to her. Frankie grabbed it angrily. "What are you doing here?"

"I can't come to the hardware store?"

"No," Frankie said, immature. She put another can of hot pink spray into the basket. Ryder sneaked a peek. There were mostly fluorescent colors. She certainly wasn't doing a home-decorating project with it. She looked up, making a face and sticking out her tongue. Yes, very mature. "You realize," she said, turning around to face him, the cans clanking loudly in her basket from the movement. "That you have now scared me twice. I almost dropped a paintbrush the first time and spray paint the second."

I didn't remember, but I find it amusing that you did. Ryder smiled again. He looked down at her feet. Red Chucks. When he'd asked Steve Riggins about his cousin, a few months ago, Steve told him that if he happened to be walking around Dillon and came across an angry girl with red Chucks, it was without a doubt his cousin. Now he understood what that meant. He'd originally thought it a joke. "Do you have any other shoes?" he questioned.

"Yes, my liege, I have other shoes," Frankie replied, sarcastic. She turned her hand in a circle a few times, sweeping down as though giving him a royal bow. "Now if you excuse me," she said, standing straight. She picked up a can of spray paint, shaking it; the ball inside clacked menacingly. "I have work to do."

What was with the bow? Ryder frowned for a second. Oh yeah, his accent. Most people didn't make such a big deal about it. He'd grown up in Europe. Local instructors had taught him, since his mother said that she wanted him to experience as much as possible before they returned to Texas. He always thought she wanted him to live an extraordinary life, one she hadn't gotten to growing up in Dillon. He went around the corner, bumping into her. "Honestly that was a genuine mistake," he said, surprised to see her still in the hardware store. He pointed over her shoulder. "Wrenches. I need replacements."

"You know, you Brits always use longer words when a short one will do," Frankie commented.

"You know I'm not British and by the way, no they don't." He felt compelled to defend the country he'd spent several years of his life living in and running wild through. It was a great country, if he could go back and live forever without the damp cold, he would. He just hated the damp cold. Hadn't been able to get used to it, especially since they'd moved to England from Italy, which had been quite warm.

Frankie rolled her eyes. "Whatever. What do you need wrenches for?"

"Replacements," he said. He picked up a can of paint. "What do you need this for?"

"Work."

"That's why I need wrenches." He cocked his head. "Work." He nodded to the spray paint again. "You doing like a Banksy thing in Dillon? Will the newspapers and camera crews show up? Graffiti is considered vandalism you know."

Frankie narrowed her eyes, but rather than retort with some smart comment like he thought she might, she seemed pleasantly surprised. "How do you know who Banksy is?" she asked, shaking her head, laughing. "Banksy was like…like twenty years ago, but…" She grinned. "You like art."

"I know Banksy. I'm not…uncultured," he answered, still smiling. See Frankie, you can be civil with other people, including me, the town boor, he thought, thinking briefly of what he knew some people thought of him. Ryder didn't care what anyone thought, which was why he was aloof and brusque. He was a direct person. He supposed that's why he liked Frankie. She was direct, but…seemed almost terrified when she was being direct. He sighed, his smile falling, something else popping into his head. The kiss. "Hey, um…" He shifted, frowning. "I…I'm sorry for the other day."

"Arresting me? You already apologized," Frankie said, crossing her arms, the basket of spray paint swinging loudly off her fingertips.

"Ah…not about arresting you." Do I have to spell this out? "The kiss. I'm sorry I kissed you like that."

Frankie squinted, her lips pursing, but she said nothing. Someone called out for her from the other aisle, growing closer. "Hey Frankie Pankie, are you done yet?" The voice turned the corner and Ryder saw Tim walking towards them. He flashed a quick smile. "Hey there Ryder. What's up?"

Frankie Pankie? Ryder tried very hard not to laugh, especially since Frankie was obviously embarrassed, her cheeks a bright shade of pink. She glared at her father, who was oblivious to her discomfort. Ryder managed to squeak out that he was fine, shaking Tim's hand. He cleared his throat as best he could without laughing. "It's good to see you Mr. Riggins."

"Come on call me Tim," Tim laughed, shifting uncomfortably at the polite title. He smiled at Frankie. "You two seem to be on better terms than a couple of days ago."

Oh I don't think so, Ryder thought, sliding a quick glance to Frankie, who was sending death daggers at her father. He didn't notice. "I suppose so," he lied. He cleared his throat loudly. Forget the damn wrenches. "I should probably go back to the station. It was nice seeing you again Tim. Frankie."

"Tell your mom I said hey!" Tim called. "Tell her that I have the porch swing she's so desperate for. I'll bring it by her house in a few days."

I wonder if Dad knows we're getting a porch swing, Ryder thought, nodding that he understood the message. He smiled slowly at Frankie, who was glaring at him again. Gosh it was fun to annoy her. He didn't intentionally set out doing it, but now he wanted to. Like he was four on the playground or something. He left the hardware store, walking to his truck.

A second after he opened up the door, he felt someone grabbing his arm. He turned, stunned when Frankie launched herself at him. He stiffened, expecting her to start hitting him or something, but her lips were hard against his and her fingers digging into the back of his head, before her palms stroked over his cheeks. Wow, he thought, reaching for her hips, pulling her against him as she kissed. This was good. He was about to return the kiss when she broke away. She glared at him again, before smiling, the glare softening. "You might be sorry, but I'm not sorry." She quirked her lip up. "Ha, I was right. Your reaction isn't what I thought." She turned, flouncing to her dad's truck.

What in the hell…Ryder lifted his head, his eyes widening. Oh crap. Tim Riggins was staring at them both, his mouth on the ground. It came back up when Frankie climbed into the truck. And then a narrow-eyed, angry look crossed his face. Oh great, Ryder sighed. Now he was going to get killed by a former All-American fullback who still had the exact muscle tone and body he'd had in high school. Excellent. He turned around, climbing into the truck, and drove off. He figured he'd skip work. He'd just go straight home.

He drove to his house, which was in a nice neighborhood of Dillon, close to the high school. It was a decent price when he'd moved to town, gotten a job in the police department and decided to run for sheriff a couple of months later and gotten it. The house suited his needs. Unlike his dad, he didn't have any desire to move into the old farmhouse and take over the ranch again. Ryder went inside, setting his toolbox in the garage. He closed the garage door, entering the kitchen and kicked off his boots. He removed a beer from the fridge, cracked it open, tossing the cap into the sink. He didn't usually drink this early, it was almost five, but hell, he really did need a drink. "Frankie Riggins makes me insane," he thought out loud. Not in a good way either. Ryder stopped in front of the painting he'd placed above the couch. He cocked his head, studying the swirls of dark blues and reds. There was an angry slash of black straight down the middle, as though she'd finished it and then a few days later just threw the black paint on in anger at what she'd done. Maybe she had.

I hate her music, but her artwork is fantastic, Ryder thought. He wondered how much the piece would actually go for at auction or in a gallery. It was quite large, probably four feet by three feet. He turned around, sitting down in his chair and reaching for his computer. He did a few searches, looking for artwork by Dylan Garrity.

Call for pricing, the website he'd found said. He glanced at the top. Art By Saracen. That's all it said. Chicago. Seemed to be the only dealer of Dylan Garrity artwork. Made sense, she was living in the guy's house. "What the hell," Ryder mumbled, calling the number. It rang a few times and someone answered. He cleared his throat, putting on his most upper-crust accent. "Yes good afternoon, I'm inquiring to a piece by one of your artists on behalf of a client."

"Name please?"

"Ryder Cafferty," he said, pronouncing his last like "Calf-tea" instead of pronouncing the 'r.' He waited a second as the person on the other end did something. He cleared his throat. "My client wishes to purchase the piece with lot number 149242."

"Hold please." The assistant or receptionist put him on hold. A moment later, a man's voice answered. "This is Matt Saracen. Can I help you?"

The owner of the gallery? Ryder frowned slightly. "Um, yeah, I'm calling about a piece by Dylan Garrity. Your website said to call for pricing. It's lot number 149242." He waited a second as Matt Saracen typed something into a computer, the keys clacking.

"Um, yeah, okay, so that piece is starting at two-five."

Two dollars and five cents? What? Ryder frowned a little. "Two-five?"

"Yes, $2500."

Holy…his eyes widened. The piece on the computer was about a quarter the size of his painting. He swallowed hard. "Um, okay, so…so my client just recently acquired a Dylan Garrity piece for…for nothing. Um, it's about four by three…not framed. Oils. Abstract."

"Ah, are there swirls?"

"Yes."

Matt laughed. "Well your client is pretty lucky, whoever he is. The swirls are the most expensive art pieces by Dylan Garrity. Four by three?" He whistled low under his breath. "That's about…ten. Starting."

Ten-thousand…holy shit. That was about…that was a quarter of his salary! How could a damn painting be so much? Ryder raked his hand through his hair. He dropped it down to pinch at his neck. "Um, so, okay…thank you."

"Who is this…I mean…I know art dealers work on some privacy things but…but a Dylan Garrity piece for free? Was it like an estate thing, because…well the artist doesn't do anything for free," Matt chuckled. He cleared his throat, covering. "Not that…not that I'd know of course."

Of course…Matt had to know Frankie and very well. She was using his house to paint. Plus he was the only one allowed to sell her art. He set the computer aside, getting up and walking to his painting. It was just so…dark. Maybe it spoke to him, but that made no sense, in general at least. He just liked it. "Well…thank you for your help Mr. Saracen."

"Um, yeah sure no problem, so…so you have a free Dylan Garrity painting?" Matt laughed again. He sighed. "Wow. Well, enjoy it. Those are hard to come by."

They disconnected and Ryder sighed. He wasn't sure he wanted this thing in his house now that he knew the cost of it. He didn't realize that she was so…well known in that arena. He just thought it was like a hobby or something, while she was singing. He went back to his computer, typing her name in Google.

A moment later, a wealth of information was at his fingertips, information he normally would never have bothered wasting brain space knowing, but now he felt he had to at least offer up some semblance of knowledge on the woman who he'd now kissed twice and who had given him a free $10000 painting.

For about an hour, he nursed his beer and read about Frankie Riggins, known to the rest of the world as Frankie Garrity, lead singer, guitarist, and songwriter for Gridiron. They'd won a Grammy, he noted, for Best Rock single. He didn't like the song that won…it was just…it was very angry. A lot of her music was angry. There were a couple that weren't so bad though. Some ballads. Overall, it just wasn't his thing.

He opened up an article, wondering about trouble in paradise with the band, saying that the three members who were not Frankie were seen leaving the recording studio solo and that their manager had come out and stated that they were taking a leave of absence from recording and the release date of their newest album was being pulled back. "Vocal strain" was the excuse the label gave for Frankie's decision to leave Los Angeles and the band.

Did Frankie know that, Ryder wondered, drawing up a photograph of her and her drummer, Isaac Clarke. They looked…friendly, he thought, scowling slightly at the image of the two of them with their arms around each other, walking through Los Angeles. The photos were clearly taken by paparazzi, because neither looked happy to be getting their picture taken as they approached their car.

Hmm, he wondered, his fingers poised over the keys. He was about ten seconds away from searching for whether or not Frankie and Isaac were an item when he came to his senses. "Good Lord," he complained, shutting down the computer and getting to his feet. He went upstairs, showered, and came back downstairs in time to answer the ringing doorbell.

Please don't be Frankie, he silently prayed, opening it up, relieved to see it was not her. It was just a member of her family. "Hey Steve," he said, stepping back to allow his friend to come inside. He sighed, seeing Steve's younger brother following him. "Ryan."

"Sup' Sheriff?"

"Don't you have a job?"

"He got fired," Steve said, glaring at his brother. He rolled his eyes. "And he won't leave me alone."

Ryan shrugged. "It was a stupid job. Do you have any beer?"

"Fridge. There might not be much left." At least for you, Ryder thought, closing the door. He stepped to Steve, nodding slightly. "So how is Gracie doing? Is she well?"

"Your accent cracks me up," Steve chuckled. He nodded, taking a seat in the armchair. "Yeah, she's fine. Eating me out of house and home. It sucks that the baby is due right before the Super Bowl and she's out here while I'm in Dallas for these last couple of months. But it's cool…my mother-in-law is coming out in a few days…" He seemed happy, but nervous at that prospect.

What am I supposed to say to that? "Hmm," Ryder answered, glancing into his kitchen, where Ryan was snooping at the notes on the side of the fridge. Not that there was anything of interest. He ignored Steve's brother, sitting on the couch. It must have drawn attention to the painting, because Steve immediately choked and stood up, walking towards him, staring at it. He sighed again. "Oh yeah, that's…"

"My cousin did this. How can you afford this?"

"I didn't." Ryder stood up, gesturing towards it, whispering. "She gave it to me. Said the only cost was an apology for arresting her."

"Shit."

Ryan appeared at his side a second later. "Shit is that Squeak's?"

Squeak? Who was Squeak? Oh, Frankie, Ryder remembered. It was a less-than-unfortunate nickname that no one called her to her face, Steve explained to him once. He shook his head. "Yes, it's a Dylan Garrity piece."

"You should sell it," Steve said, glancing sideways. "Make some extra cash."

No. No I won't sell it. I'll just return it to her. Which sucked, because he really liked it. He nodded to the door. "Shall we go?" He rolled his eyes when Ryan began mocking him for his accent. They left the house, climbing into Steve's truck and drove away from Ryder's house. He didn't think this would be a good idea, but a guy's night out was Steve's idea, before he became a father and claimed he wouldn't have nights out like this for some time.

Or ever, Ryder thought. He wouldn't know though. Not like any of his friends had children. Or that he'd ever spent time around them since he was one. Only child and everything. He wasn't even that close with Steve, but since he'd started running patrols by Steve's house out of courtesy, when he became sheriff, they'd become good ones.

And Ryan had about a million speeding tickets to his name, which the sheriff's department only had to get in on to go find him, pick him up, and him to court so he could pay for the damn things. Plus he'd spent a lot of time in the drunk tank.

"So what's with you and my cousin?" Ryan asked, leaning on the seat. He frowned, but it did nothing to make it look like he was thinking harder. Ryder wasn't sure that Ryan could really think about anything other than where the next quick money scheme came from. "Are you guys dating or something?"

"No, we're not dating."

"Does she hate you?"

"Yes."

"Do you hate her?"

"What is this high school?" he snapped. He shook his head and put his sunglasses on. "Forget it. Where are we going?"

"Buddy's Bar," Steve said. He shrugged at Ryan's groan. "Not my fault you never pay your tab. It's the only bar that doesn't insist on giving me free drinks and no one wants to talk about football because they've already talked about football with me. Now shut up or I'll tell Mom about Liddy."

"Don't tell Mom about Liddy."

"Oh this sounds good. Who is Liddy?" Ryder asked, smiling.

"No one."

"Girl who thought she was knocked up by this asshole. Thankfully it was a false alarm, but Mom still doesn't know about it and I'm going to tell her. She'll kill him. She doesn't want grandchildren if the parents are going to be deadbeats," Steve said, glaring in the rearview mirror at his brother, who was slumped down, ignoring him with his fingers stuffed in his ears. "And my brother is a deadbeat."

Which was so ironic, given that Steve was one of the best quarterbacks the NFL had seen in years, was beloved by America, and incredibly intelligent, and Ryan's identical twin Scott was off doing some sort of super smart thing in the Arctic. Yet Ryan was living up to the bad side of the Riggins name and didn't seem to care. Regardless, Ryder kept his mouth closed, peering outside as the sun set around them. He really didn't do the whole…guy's night out thing, but…oh well. He had to grow accustomed to living in a small town. This was something that he had to deal with. He got out of the truck, going into the bar and stopping in his tracks.

Steve slapped his back. "Buckle up, it's going to be a bumpy ride."

Standing in front of a microphone on the stage, usually used for small cover bands and the occasional karaoke contest, was Grammy-winning Frankie Riggins, slamming her hand on her guitar, looking like she'd just stepped off the tour bus. Looking steaming angry and ready to blow off that steam by playing rock music all night long for a dive bar full of people who had grown up listening to her.

Oh boy, he thought, whistling low under his breath. Yeah. Bumpy ride was an understatement.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:**I am going to have to space the updates out a bit more after this, because I had most of the fic finished, but went and deleted about half of it because I wasn't happy with the result. So...starting over a bit after this particular chapter. Hopefully people are enjoying and thanks to those who have reviewed :)

* * *

**Chapter 6**

What was _he_ doing here in _her_ bar?

Frankie kept playing her guitar, no longer singing. She'd been known by the locals in Dillon to appear at one of her grandpa's bars and test out new music, which she was doing now. If her band hated her and wanted her out to take a break, well…she'd take a break, but she had to keep working. She angrily moved her fingers up and down the guitar, changing notes fast in a long-ass guitar riff. The minute she slammed her hand down to finish, she got a huge cheer from the crowd, but she didn't smile or thank them, her eyes on Ryder, who was at the bar, laughing at something Steve said. Liar, her cousin acted like he didn't know the guy. Ryder just said they ran patrols by his house, nothing about them being friends. She tossed her hair out of her eyes, glancing down at her giant notebook full of notes and ramblings. She couldn't concentrate anymore, not now that Ryder had been at the bar for the last few hours, had fended off the few women who had tried to flirt with him and hadn't said a word to her.

She pushed the guitar aside, leaning over and picked up her pencil, changing a few things around on the last song and returned to the microphone, playing softly. There, she thought, satisfied. Made sense switching up the chord changes. "Come on, play 'Alcohol'!" someone yelled from the crowd.

Frankie quirked her lip. "You want me to play a song about alcoholism in a bar?" she laughed. She shook her head. "You clearly don't understand the point of that song, huh?" She laughed, tossing her hair from her eyes again. "But alright. Maybe some of you will be on your way to a meeting after this."

She changed her finger position, starting to play the achy song, which was the only way she could describe it. It was a ballad and usually was a lot…angrier, when she had Isaac playing drums. Her stomach kind of ached. She missed them. They were her bandmates, her family. Frankie sang soft, sitting back on a stool behind her, drawing out her words about losing friends, family, and your life because you wanted the 'brown foggy bottle instead.'

When she finished, she got a standing ovation. "Thank you," she said, glancing at Ryder at the bar, who was also applauding, but he didn't look pleased. That might just be how his face is, she thought. He was so grouchy. "After that I'm going to take a break, enjoy your evening." She stepped back, placing her guitar in the case and gathered her things, disappearing into Buddy's office. "Hey Grandpa."

"Yes baby?" Buddy asked, looking up from a notebook of numbers. He smiled, gesturing towards a corner of the cramped and filled office. "You can put your stuff there if you want to keep it here for the night."

"Thanks." Frankie tucked her hair behind her ears, walking to the desk. She sat on the edge of it, reaching into a dish to remove a peppermint, biting into the plastic and running her tongue over the candy. It helped to soothe her throat when she finished singing. She nodded to his books. "Breaking even?"

"Breaking awesome," Buddy said, smiling. He tapped his pencil on the books. "Doing pretty well. I think we can open up another franchise. There's the one in Westerbee, the one in Midland, and I'm thinking of opening up one in Sugarland."

"You should go to Austin. I can record there and not have to keep coming out here to test my music," she teased. Buddy chuckled. He sighed, reaching to rub at his arm. Frankie instantly keyed in on his grimace. "Grandpa, that's your left arm. Are you still taking your pills?"

"I'm taking the damn things."

"And eating right and exercising?"

"I'm fine," Buddy grumbled, but he didn't answer her question. He let go of his arm, picking up a pencil again. He cleared his throat. "You should probably go back out there. The town loves to see its local celebrity."

"One of many."

"Yes, but Smash Williams and Vince Howard don't visit unless it's a football event. You're here all the time."

"Not all the time."

Buddy shrugged. "Enough." He looked up at her again. "So what are you doing here? Not that we don't mind you visiting, but your mother said you haven't talked to her about why you're back. Did something happen in Los Angeles? I thought you were recording?"

I don't want to talk about it. "Taking a break. The band is stressed," Frankie said, moving off the desk. She had about fifty voicemails from her manager, Glen, an annoying little gnome-like man who was very good at his job and came recommended by both Jason and Noah. She just couldn't stand him. Plus, she still didn't have any calls from her bandmates, which hurt more than she realized it would. Maybe they were just giving her a break, like they said, she hoped.

The office door opened and her father stepped inside. "Hey baby, you did good." Tim looked at Buddy. "You need more Lonestar. It's in the back?"

"You don't work here Tim," Buddy warned.

"Well Angela does but she's doing a good job of not working here, she's flirting with some truck drivers that just dropped in."

"Damnit," Buddy complained, pushing up from the desk and hurrying out to go corral his sometimes girlfriend and longtime bartender. Frankie shook her head, chuckling and glancing at her father, who was studying her, his eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"Ryder Cafferty is out there."

"Yeah, so?"

"You didn't tell me earlier why you went up and kissed him."

"Because I'm an adult and if I want to kiss people I will and I don't have to explain it to my father," Frankie said. She flashed a quick smile. "Where's Mom?"

Tim sighed again, walking to sit beside her in the desk chairs in front of Buddy's desk. "Your mother is currently at home freaking out because TJ has a sleepover at the house of a little friend and there's some other boys there. She didn't want to come out and worry, so she's at home, alone, worrying."

You guys have a weird relationship. Most husbands would be at home trying to support their wives, but if Tim didn't think it was a big deal, he wasn't going to be there if he didn't have to be there. Frankie shook her head. "What's the big deal? He's got friends, he's not stupid."

"I don't know, she's been overly emotional."

"She okay?" Lyla was emotional, but for her father to make the comment…she frowned slightly at Tim's concerned, faraway look. "Dad? Is Mom alright?"

"Hmm?" Tim nodded, pushing up from his chair. "Yeah I'm fine, thanks."

I was asking about Mom, she thought, watching as her dad went to the door. He stopped, turning and pointed to her. "You asked about your mom, not me." Yeah, she thought, lifting an eyebrow. This was...strange. He wasn't focusing, not that that wasn't uncommon, but…he seemed off. Tim nodded, smiling. "She's fine. I'm going to go check on her. Later."

Weird. Wouldn't be the first time her parents were being weird, so she just said goodbye, and sighed. After a moment, she yawned, getting up from the chair and leaving the office, closing the door behind her. She walked down the short hallway, past the storeroom; mop room, and dishwashing room, pushing through the saloon style doors into the bar, where Angela was still flirting with a trucker while Buddy got people drinks. "Frankie!"

She glanced at her cousins and Ryder. Great. Frankie meandered down the length of the bar, until she came to a stop at the three of them. "Can I get you guys something?" she asked, her hands on her hips. She refused to look at Ryder. What the hell? She was so bothered by this guy. Like a moth to a flame. "Like some cyanide? It's good with vodka."

"Didn't you write a song about poisoning an ex?" Ryan asked, swirling his whiskey glass around. Or at least, she assumed it was whiskey. He didn't drink anything other than that or beer. He cocked his head. "Speaking from experience?"

That song was about Aiden, the rock star who was fifteen years older than her and who cheated on her. She'd gotten back at him in her own way. Then wrote a song about it. "Just hopeful desires," Frankie said. She removed a beer, cracking the cap and took a long pull, her eyes on Ryder. She swallowed, gesturing the bottle towards him. "What are you doing with these cats?"

"We're mates," Ryder said.

"Friends," Ryan corrected. He rolled his eyes. "Silly Brit."

"I'm not British, how many times must I explain that to you?" The fact that he got even more British when he was angrier wasn't helping his point. Frankie chuckled. Ryder glared at her. "What's so amusing Francesca?"

"FYI only my father and mother call me Francesca."

"And Noah," Steve said. He reached for his phone. "Speaking of Noah, he said he was totally lying about the Victoria's Secret thing." He pointed to her, squinting. "I called and a kid answered. I think he's dating a mom."

A mom!? Not that there was anything wrong with that, but…she shook her head, already dismissing Steve's hypothesis. "Noah would tell me."

"Can you really see him with not one but two VS models, Frankie? Dude's lying through his teeth, the one time was fine because he was in the NFL and living up to the stereotype, but now…" Steve tapped his phone on the counter, focusing on her again. "He's weird. Cagey. Find out."

"I'll tell you what I think about Noah's love life," Frankie said, leaning forward, scowling at Steve. "I think his ex? Willa? She's totally not over him. Stalking. Pretty sad."

"No shit?"

"Yes. I told him she would, he didn't listen to me." Frankie glanced at Ryder, who was scowling. It seemed to be his perma-look. She smiled around the rim of her beer bottle. "What's your problem Harry Potter?"

He scowled again. "No problem." He shrugged. "You seem to care an awful lot about this Noah individual's personal life is all."

That is none of your business. Frankie scowled. "He's my best friend."

"I'm just saying."

What else is bugging you, Frankie thought, sensing that there was something else. She was intuitive about these things. "What else is up your butt about me? Just say it. Don't hide."

Ryder set his glass down. It was clear. She assumed it was vodka, which would be a harder drink than she thought for him. He shrugged, his voice smooth as silk. "Fine. I was simply wondering what you are doing in Dillon if you're as good at playing music as you were up there a moment before. Also wondering why you play such drivel when you just played a song that is far superior."

"Drivel? Who says drivel?" My music isn't drivel. Frankie was interrupted by her cousin, who barged on over. Ryan threw down some cash onto the bar. "I'm out of here dudes."

"You can't drive," Steve said, frowning. He looked over Ryan's shoulder at his 'duh' look. "Oh, I see." Frankie followed Steve's gaze. A beautiful blonde with a huge rack was giving Ryan the come hither look from across the bar. He slapped his brother on the back. "Make our family proud. Don't bring that one home to Mom either, she'll eat her alive."

"Nah, but Dad will like the look of her." Ryan disappeared, leaving the bar with the blonde. Frankie rolled her eyes. Idiots. Ryan definitely couldn't bring that one home to Mindy and Billy's for Sunday dinner. Mindy made him bring one woman home a month, just so she was sure that he was at least speaking to them rather than using them.

Steve's phone rang, some romantic song. He got up, answering it. "Hey Gracie, I was just about to come home…"

That left the two of them. Frankie slipped around the edge of the bar, taking Steve's vacated stool. She twisted the bottle around on the coaster, glancing at him. She cleared her throat. It would be best if they could be civil, despite their rocky start. "How long have you been in Dillon?" she asked.

"About a year," Ryder answered. He nodded towards Steve. "Met your cousin when I decided it would be best to run patrols by his house when he's in town. He's a nice guy."

"Steve's a very nice guy." He should be on a plane to Dallas tonight though. Maybe he would be. He commuted often between Dallas, Dillon, and wherever the team happened to be playing. It was the thrust of football season right now, he really needed to be paying more attention to the game, not gallivanting around Texas, but…since Gracie got pregnant, he'd been distracted. It was showing in his stats, but Frankie knew Steve didn't care. She sipped her beer again. Back to what she wanted to talk about. "So…" A smile flirted on her lips, slightly nervous. "You…you actually liked my song?"

"Alcohol?" Ryder nodded. Matter-of-fact. "Yes." He chuckled; must have seen her look of surprise. "Francesca, I told you I don't care for your music, but that up there…" His voice softened. "That wasn't your music."

Which made no sense to her. "Um, I don't know if you know this, but I write all the music and lyrics for my band. So it kind of is my music," she laughed.

Ryder shook his head. His voice was quiet and he leaned in to her so she could hear. "No Francesca, that was not your band's music. That was your music. It was lovely. Sad, but…your other stuff caters to the demographic you are attempting to reach which is not myself so I don't care for it."

But everyone likes my music. Why are you speaking so scientifically too? Frankie turned the bottle around again. Her thumb caught a bit of condensation on the edge before it hit her hand. She glanced at him again. She ran her tongue over her teeth, mumbling. "You…you do know what the song is about, don't you?"

"Alcoholism. Loving someone through the pain."

She nodded. Yes, it was. She took a long swallow of beer, setting it back down again. Her voice was faraway. She hadn't admitted this to anyone. "It's about my father." In the dim light of the bar, she glanced at Ryder again. It shadowed his face. Made his brown eyes seem almost black. She sighed. "Everyone thinks the song is about…about some generic person. About the disease, but it's about my father. It's about my best friend." Loving someone through the pain. She sighed again. "I had to take my best friend to rehab when he was in college. I was trying to make it big in Los Angeles and he called me. He was a mess. He'd realized how far he'd fallen so I drove out in my piece of shit car to Austin and took him. Wrote the song in the waiting room."

I've never told that to anyone, I don't know why I just told it to a perfect stranger. Someone who would probably hold it against her. He was just so…aloof. Frankie glanced at Ryder. She scowled. "I'd appreciate it if you kept that between us."

"Of course." Ryder's eyes softened somewhat. A curtain just fell, she thought. He hesitated, his forehead wrinkling briefly. "Um…Frankie your painting…the one you gave me…I found out how much it cost. I can't accept it."

"It's a gift." Why did he have to go figure it out? Now it was going to get weird.

"Frankie…"

"The painting costs what the artist thinks its worth," Frankie whispered. She spun the coaster around, tapping it against the mahogany bar. She sighed. "My art dealer…"

"Matt Saracen."

"Yes," she murmured. She sighed again. "He always told me that artwork was what you make of it. It's what I want it to be. Not what someone else wants." She turned again towards him; he was hanging on her every word. "I love my artwork, it's a passion and if you like it and you want it, then the price is what I make of it. It was an apology for the ticket and you gave me the apology, so we're square." She finished her beer, smiling at him. "But I'm sorry for speeding. I won't do it again."

Ryder set down the glass of something clear he was drinking, climbing off the stool. "And you're not driving either. Do you have your vehicle? I'll drive you home."

"Yeah, let me get my keys. Grandpa!" Frankie shouted. She waved goodbye to him, saying she'd square up her tab tomorrow. Ryder dropped some money on the bar and Frankie gathered her things, leaving the bar with him. She walked to her Camaro, dropping the keys in his hand. "How do you I know you are okay to drive?"

"The clear stuff?" Ryder chuckled. "It's water."

"On guy's night?"

"On most nights." He was cagey, climbing into the Camaro. He paused, glancing sideways. "I just realized that my car is at home, so if I drop you off at your house, I'm still walking back…"

"So just stick around my place until I sober up."

"Why not my place?"

"Because mine is better."

"But you don't know that."

Frankie quirked her lip up; it was fun to fight with him. It kind of reminded her of when she was younger and got on Noah's nerves. Only there was a different sort of undercurrent here. She moved closer to him, reaching over to grab the gearshift between them, holding onto it as she slid her leg over. She brushed her lips beneath his ear. "We could go to your place," she murmured, her eyes on his. "But if we go to mine…I'm probably going to be distracted by painting. It just depends what you want."

He slid his eyes sideways. Weighing his options. He reached between them, his hand covering hers on the gearshift. A slow, rakish smile pulled on his lips. He was really quite handsome, when he wasn't being a know-it-all aloof idiot, she thought. "Move your leg," he murmured. "It's going to be hard for me to drive with it over the console."

She carefully lifted her leg back, sliding it down in her seat. She slid back completely, smiling. I have you, she thought, glancing out the window as he drove out of Buddy's parking lot. They were completely silent, just light breathing between both of them. She felt her heart flipping in her chest; this wasn't what she did. She wasn't the tease or the sexpot.

I'm a girl with some insecurity issues who tries too hard, she thought, glancing sideways at Ryder. After a moment, they turned down a tree-lined street with nice, upper middle-class houses. He pulled her Camaro into a short driveway, killing the engine and glancing sideways. "I'm going inside," he said, leaving her keys in the cupholder beside the gearshift. He climbed out, walking up to the front door, unlocked it, and entered, closing it behind him.

So…now what? I'm not very good at this. Frankie swallowed the lump in her throat. She liked to play a good game, but…this was…just do it, she thought, closing her eyes. There hadn't been anyone since…well in awhile. She grabbed her keys and climbed out, marching to the front door, opened it up, and went inside. She stood on the threshold, staring at Ryder, who was in the center of the living room, his hands in his pockets. She swallowed nervously. "I don't know what I'm doing here," she mumbled, staring at him.

I don't know what I'm doing in Dillon or in this house. She shrugged. "I'll never say this again, because I've had a few too many tonight, but…" She laughed. "I like you Ryder. Just…" She pushed her index finger and thumb together, squinting at it. "Just a teeny, tiny, eensy little bitty-bit."

"And you'll never admit this again?"

"Nope," she laughed, reaching up and wrapping her arms around his neck. She smiled again, whispering, dead serious though. This was important to her. "I don't do one-night stands."

Ryder brushed his lips over hers, whispering. "Neither do I."

Yet something tells me the women never stay the full night, Frankie thought, as he pulled her up into his arms. He seemed sad. Lonely. She thought briefly about what her uncle had said. Afghanistan. She broke the kiss after a moment, her eyes fluttering open. "Ryder," she mumbled, shaking her head. She sighed, a shaky smile pulling her lips up and then back down again as she swallowed hard, nervous. "I'm…I'm a kind of a mess right now. Are you sure you want to…"

"I'm a mess too," he mumbled, pulling her back into his arms.

She sighed, her arms still around him. She smiled slightly, rolling her eyes upward to the ceiling. "You know, I said I don't do one-night stands because I'm not sleeping with you tonight. Just thought I'd put that up front."

He snorted, letting go of her and walking to the kitchen. "I had no doubt."

"Good, so long as we're on the same page. Now…" Frankie crashed backwards into the armchair, studying her painting above the couch. She smiled, leaning back on her elbow and reached up for the beer he offered her. She cracked the cap, smiling upwards. "Let's get to know each other."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"So is the accent real?" Frankie asked, running her pencil along the lines she'd begun sketching, glancing over at Ryder, who was seated on a lawn chair in his backyard, a few days after he'd driven her to his house, just for the two of them to end up spending a few hours bickering back and forth on the merits of her music. She'd driven home that evening with more than a few questions about Ryder Cafferty, none of which had been completely answered.

He scowled, looking up from the packet of court documents he was reviewing. "What sort of a question is that?"

"The accent, it sounds fake. It's like…British but not."

"Because my parents are American, I grew up on military bases, and I live in Texas." He held up his finger, an eyebrow arching. Schooling her, she thought, smudging a shadow on the sketchpad. "But I told you before. I went to school locally. My mother didn't want me learning on the base."

"Why not?"

Ryder shrugged, marking up one of the documents. "She wanted me to experience, I think."

"You never asked?" Franked questioned, incredulous. She chuckled, beginning to shade. She shrugged. "I always asked my parents just about everything. After the summer I almost ruined things with my nosiness and teenage idiocy."

"Not all of us have families like that Frankie," he mumbled. He turned a page in the thick sheaf of papers he was holding. He'd been pretty engrossed in them. It seemed like court documents to her, she thought, looking up again. His brow was furrowed, locks of his oak-colored hair falling over his forehead. He didn't bother brushing them out of his eyes, just continued to study his papers. Occasionally he'd sigh, make a note, and then continued on. Whatever was in the papers was clearly engrossing, but seemed to distress him.

Frankie felt her phone buzz in her front pocket. She removed it, staring at Penny's phone number. Nice of you to finally call. Mouth had called yesterday. Isaac had tried calling her every single day for the last week. None of that mattered. She'd just ignored them. She set it down on the iron bistro table beside her pencil kit, reaching for a gum eraser to fix some of the edging on her sketch.

"What's that?"

"What's what?"

"That jelly thing in your hand."

She looked over the top of the sketchpad; he'd put his papers aside and was watching her. He'd propped his foot up on the firepit between them, his flip flop hanging off his heel. It was an unseasonably warm day in West Texas, especially since Thanksgiving was next week. She shrugged. "It's an eraser."

"You have to erase?"

"Yes, even I make mistakes, I know it's hard to believe." She smiled when she heard him chuckle. It was a nice sound, although sometimes it sounded rusty, like he'd forgotten. Mr. Serious. The past three days they'd been kind of hanging around each other, since the night at the bar, she'd come to see he wasn't…mean or anything. He was just very brusque; he didn't want to waste time with stupid, little things.

Ryder looked up at the sky; it was starting to grow cloudy. It would get colder, but Frankie didn't want to go inside yet. He dropped his gaze to her again. "Have you talked to your bandmates yet?"

"No," she answered. As though on cue, her phone went off. She glanced at it. Isaac. She reached for it, punching a button and lifting it to her ear. "What do you want? Stop calling me."

Isaac sighed in relief. "You're alive! I asked my grandparents if they saw you to let me know, but they haven't. How are you Frankie, it's been like two weeks since you left."

"You mean since you kicked me out? I don't want to talk to you Isaac. I'm working right now. I've got a few songs in the works, we'll see if they are up to your impossible standards." Frankie continued, before he could speak, her words quickening. "I just wanted to answer and tell you to please stop calling me. Please. You in particular because you know that I still have to stay away from you."

Isaac groaned. "Frankie, I apologized…I thought we were friends?"

"We are friends Isaac. We're very good friends and that's all we ever were, even when I thought we weren't, so…" she trailed off, closing her eyes and whispering. "So Isaac, please just…make it easier on me and just give me some space. It's what you guys wanted. I'll call you when I'm ready to come back. This was actually a good thing." She hung up before he could say anything else, tossing her phone aside. She waited, staring at it, but it didn't ring. Good, she hoped he got the message.

Now Ryder is going to start asking questions. Three…two…one… "You and your drummer?"

"In a manner of speaking," she mumbled, dragging the pencil tip lightly over the paper. It was all about pressure with pencilwork. Too light or too dark, at least you could erase it, but she hated erasing. Frankie tossed her hair from her eyes; Ryder was still looking at her. "What?"

"Nothing." He picked up his papers, carrying them into the house. A few minutes later, he walked back out. "Take me to your house."

That was an order. "Take me to your leader," she retorted. She drew her legs beneath her, finishing up the sketch. She didn't bother looking up at him. "I don't take orders from anyone, Ryder."

"Fine, let's go to your house, I want to see it."

"My house? It's Matt Saracen's house."

"Your family house."

"The White House on a Hill?" she teased, tossing her pencil aside. She tugged the edge of the paper, removing it from her sketchpad, turning it towards him. She smiled at his surprised look. "I take checks, two forms of ID." Frankie put her things together, walking off his back patio and into the house. He followed her out front a few minutes later, climbing into her Camaro with her.

A few minutes later, Ryder spoke, soft. "I don't seem that sad to you, do I?"

Interesting that you think the sketch is sad, she thought, not saying anything as she began to drive throughout Dillon. Keeping to the speed limit of course, she wouldn't put it past him to ticket her while he was a passenger and off duty. She pointed to the high school, seeing her grandfather driving around in his golf cart. "I rode around in one of those for an entire summer. Actually, for about three or four summers," she chuckled.

Ryder smiled. "You seem like as a teenager you would be a handful."

"Oh I was. I about bit my Aunt Tyra's head off one summer, she was staying with us because she'd…" Frankie trailed off. Now more than ever she felt connected to Tyra. This place was a bit of a…rejuvenation of sorts for her. Much like it had been for Tyra, even if Frankie had always felt a bit of an outsider in Dillon. She was Tim Riggins's Northern Daughter for the vast majority of her life. She sighed, whispering, her thought petering out. "Doesn't matter, but…I was a pill. To her, to my dad…to just about everyone that tolerated me. Wasn't many."

"Did you have friends here?" Ryder shrugged, keeping quiet. "I always hated it when we moved somewhere else. Just when I got a few friends, whether on the base or in whatever town we were living in, Dad got orders and we moved."

"I thought that the military tried not to do that anymore?"

"They don't, but Dad jumped round'. He was Special Forces for awhile, Green Beret…ended up leaving that after he hurt his knee pretty bad and couldn't pass the physical no matter how hard he tried." He was silent, clearly thinking about something. Frankie didn't pry this time, but she was dying to know more about his childhood. It was fascinating, the kind of gypsy lifestyle he'd had as a kid. That was all she'd wanted sometimes, when she was cooped up in their fancy townhouse in Virginia. She even wanted to tour around the country with Ethan, but Lyla never went for it, telling her she had to stay in school and go to Texas in the summer.

Frankie turned off onto one of the roads taking them to her parents' house. "So you moved around after that because he got a new assignment?"

"Yeah, he did spooky stuff."

"What was your favorite place?"

"England," he said immediately. He smiled at her surprised look. "I loved England. That's where I graduated high school. My first girlfriend was English, my first time getting in trouble was in England…I did everything in England. Applied to West Point from there."

"And got in, I hear."

"You hear correctly, why else do you think I'm wearing a West Point t-shirt?"

Frankie snorted. "My dad wears a Harvard t-shirt, doesn't mean he went there. Just means my mom has a sense of humor after returning from a Patriots and Cowboys game." She opened it up a bit on the open road, grinning at his stern frown. "You're not going to ticket me are you? Come on Ryder, open up! Laugh! Do something! You're so freaking serious all the time."

Without looking at him, she yelled, quickly moving her foot on and off the clutch as she pulled the car up to higher rates of speed, finally stealing a glance at him. He seemed a bit…she slowed down slightly, frowning at his look. He was stiff, his face pale. Did he not want to be going fast? Feeling the wind through his hair? She pursed her lips, saying nothing and slowing back to 65. She glanced again at him; he was regaining color in his cheeks once more. Relieved.

Huh, she thought, her tongue scraping over her teeth. She finally pulled up to the gates, which were closed, with the giant 'R' in the center. "My parents are strange," she said at his snort. She punched in the code, which was TJ's birthday, and the gates opened. "Fair warning on my father, he wasn't really thrilled when I kissed you in the parking lot." The car stopped beside her dad's truck. She climbed out, walking up and into the house without knocking. "Hello!" she yelled. "I have a guest, so everyone better be decent and not breaking laws." No one yelled back. "Huh," she commented, dropping her sweatshirt on the kitchen counter, walking out the open French doors. She frowned. "That's odd. When Dad's truck is here, usually they're around, but…" She shrugged, looking over her shoulder. "Guess it's just us."

"So you spent your summers here, huh?" Ryder asked, looking around the living room, his hands in his pockets. He smiled. "Lots of your art."

"Mom and Dad were my first clients, so to speak." Frankie nodded upstairs. "I used to crawl out the window in my room and climb down a tree. Dad chopped it down when I was sixteen and caught someone else climbing up the tree."

Ryder laughed, his face breaking into a wide smile. "Seriously?"

"Yup. His name was Tyler Harrison, he was a cornerback, which I think might have annoyed my father more." Frankie's eyes sparkled; Ryder clearly didn't get it. She grinned again. "He was defense. Dad said he'd rather I get with an offense man. But either way, Tyler was caught climbing up the tree, Dad took him home to his mother, who promptly beat his ass for sneaking out of his room, and then he chopped down the tree. It was five in the morning and there was my father, with his chainsaw, chopping down the tree."

"Did he come to his senses?"

"Dad?" Frankie rolled her eyes, leaning against the counter, folding her hands together. She shook her head. "Naw, Dad lives in his own, strange little world sometimes."

"Did you and Tyler Harrison ever finally get to where you wanted to go that he was climbing up a tree so late at night to get there?" Ryder asked, putting certain emphasis on certain syllables, wiggling his eyebrows and leaning over the counter across from her. His voice dropped. "Because I remember Trudy McAuliffe. Never got there. Her sheepherder father, who probably is really related to William Wallace, mind you, barged in on us. Massive man. I was terrified for months to go near another girl."

Would you like to know if Tyler Harrison ever got there? She smiled, shaking her head. "No. Tyler Harrison never got where he wanted, because I panicked when we were almost there. Nope, it ended up being Everett Watson, a fullback, I dated him my senior year of high school in Dallas. I was eighteen, it was miserable, he broke up with me three weeks later, and I kept my bra on the entire time." She shrugged at his look of 'really?' "I live a fast lifestyle sometimes Ryder, but I really..." She sighed, whispering. "Something I just don't know which way is up."

I'm also slightly secure enough to admit that. Frankie pushed back from the counter, walking out of the house. She looked out over the land. The pond was off in the distance, the dock refinished, this time with benches her father built in to the side, along with some storage containers for towels and stuff during the summer months. Mom would have put them all away by now. She started walking across the grass, Ryder following behind her. She turned quickly, looking at him. He stopped in his tracks. "You know," she murmured, keeping her eyes on him. "I know why I'm in Dillon, Ryder. At least, I think I do." To recover from her…breakdown, but it wasn't a breakdown. Perspective. She cocked her head, whispering. "Do you have like…PTSD or something?"

He drew back, his forehead wrinkling. Anger crossed is features. He swallowed hard. "PTSD? Really Frankie?"

"Well do you?" she demanded.

"Why would you ask that?"

"Well for one, because you're not answering my question!" She didn't care right now. She shook her head, laughing. "You know what Ryder, forget it. I'll just talk about all my problems and pretend that we're friends when you don't tell me anything."

"I don't have to tell you my life story Frankie."

"No, but a little bit about you would be good, because I feel like you know more about me than I know about you and I don't know if you know this, but that's not really something I'm big on," Frankie yelled. She wanted to punch him. Why didn't he understand this? She threw her hands in the air. "Forget it!"

Ryder turned in a few circles. He stormed towards her, his voice soft. "You want to know about me Frankie? Fine. Fine, I'm career Army but I left because the Army decided to screw me, my team and give me a medal for my troubles, but refuse to admit that they were the ones who messed up in the first place." He stared down at her, whispering. "Chew on that Frankie. That's why I'm in Dillon."

What was that supposed to mean, she thought, staring at him. She was about ten seconds from grabbing him and kissing him, which seemed to be something that they did, when she heard her brother's unmistakable yell of her name. "Out here," she shouted, still looking at Ryder, who seemed to have the same look on his face. She glanced at TJ, who ran towards them, wearing a huge Dillon Panthers jersey that reached his knees. "It's Saturday," she signed. "Not Friday, what's with the jersey?"

"Practice," TJ answered. He looked up, smiling. He signed, asking who Ryder was, but didn't speak. Frankie knew, even at five, he got self-conscious about how he spoke in front of total strangers. Ryder seemed surprised when she knelt, signing back to TJ that Ryder was a policeman, and that he was a friend of hers, and to say hello and not worry about his voice. TJ waved, speaking slowly. "Hello."

Ryder lifted his hand. "Hello," he said, his voice clear. Frankie smiled, relieved he didn't yell or shout or otherwise try to draw out his words. TJ could hear most things; he just had to focus more on the sounds.

"You are policeman?" TJ asked, signing subconsciously.

"Uh, yeah…" He looked over a Frankie, his voice quiet. "Can he read my lips?"

"Yes," Frankie answered. She looked at TJ's frown; he couldn't hear whispers. She signed quickly that Ryder had asked if he could read lips. TJ nodded affirmative and made a face, signing fast. She laughed, looking up at Ryder's confused look as he tried to follow the hand conversation. She grinned. "He said that you look confused and that it looks funny on you."

It did look funny, seeing Ryder caught off guard by something. How did he not know about TJ's deafness? He'd been in Dillon for a year, at least, and everyone knew her parents. Ryder knew her dad, at least. Weird. She let go of TJ, who pulled from her, running back to the house. Lyla stepped out onto the porch, calling out to them. "We brought back food."

Frankie looked at Ryder. "You want food?"

"I guess."

She didn't bring up his little outburst when they went up to the house, choosing to focus on her family. She also didn't bring up why Ryder was with her, even when both her mom and dad seemed surprised to see him when she went up into the house. Lyla welcomed him in like he was a member of the family, which was what Frankie figured her mother would do. Meanwhile, Tim gave him the fatherly 'once over' and promptly decided it was better than some of her other choices in men, only one of whom he'd met.

Well two, if we're including Tyler Harrison, Frankie thought. The other was Noah Street. Everyone else, she kept hidden from this part of her life. She didn't like people knowing it. It was perfect, she thought, watching TJ stuff French fries into his face. She smiled, glancing at Ryder, who was watching her too. She pursed her lips, smiling and reached for a sleeve of fries. They could talk later. Hell, they were bound to talk later. But they didn't. She brought him back to his house and drove off, leaving him to stew, since he'd been moody the entire afternoon. Frankie got back to Matt's house, locked herself inside, and began to write music. Ignoring her bandmates the entire time.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:**I got my second wind on this story. Storylines kind of start spidering out, there's several of them, but they all wrap up. Enjoy :)

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**Chapter 8**

"No!" Ryder yelled, jumping up in bed. He stared ahead, trying to breathe, but it was difficult, what with the elephant sitting on his chest. He closed his eyes, smacking his hand to his forehead, scrubbing it over his face. It was clammy and yet he felt like he was burning up. He closed his eyes, trying to breath slowly. He was coated in sweat. But I'm cold, he thought, shivering now, once his mind processed that he wasn't hot.

Adrenaline. Your body shivers when you have too much coursing through your system, he thought, his eyes fluttering shut again. He threw back the covers, sliding out and shuffling into the bathroom, where he turned on the cold water at full blast. He took a deep breath and stuck his head beneath the faucet. Pain from the ice cold water slashed at his stomach, but he held firm, until a minute passed and he removed his head, reaching for a towel to dry off.

That was a bad one, he thought, closing his eyes again. He stepped away from the sink, turning off the light. He went to the bed, staring down at it. Damnit. He pushed his hand through his hair, his fingers curling into the damp strands. I can't go back to sleep. It was too fresh in his mind, even if he took the pills, he'd just be fighting the images again.

He turned away from the bed, walking into this closet. It took a few minutes, but he'd rummaged enough in some boxes on the floor, removing the black box. He carried it out of the closet, walking downstairs with it. It took a moment, but he had a bottle of whiskey, a glass, and the box. At the kitchen table, he sat down, poured himself a glass of whiskey and opened up the box.

Took a sip. Stared at its contents. Until he'd had enough of looking at the damn thing. It wouldn't change anything, whether he had this or not. It didn't bring anyone back, he thought, closing his eyes, trying not to hear the screams. It didn't help anything. He sighed, looking down at the box again. "I can't do this," he mumbled. He pushed the box backwards, leaning forward in the chair. I hate drinking. It just made him feel fuzzy.

Right now he wanted to feel fuzzy. He hated these dreams. He finished the glass, leaving it on the table and got up, walking towards the staircase. At the bottom, he paused, frowning slightly and glancing at the clock on the wall near the kitchen. It was only midnight. He had a feeling….he grabbed the box, flicked it shut, and ran upstairs, dropping it on the dresser and shoved his feet into a pair of jeans. He tossed on a t-shirt and a pair of shoes, grabbing a hoodie and running out the front door.

Several minutes later, he pulled in front of the small white bungalow, not surprised to see the lights on. He had a feeling. Ryder's feelings were usually right. He was almost never wrong. He went up to the front door, knocking lightly. The door pulled back a moment later, Frankie standing on the other side of the threshold. Her eyes widened and she seemed genuinely surprised to see him. "Ryder it's like midnight," she whispered, pulling him into the house. She was alarmed. Ryder was kind of…happy about that. "What are you doing here?"

"I can't come see you in the middle of the night?" he tried to joke, but he was rusty. He didn't joke. That wasn't his thing. He sighed, pushing his hand over his hair, whispering. "Sorry to interrupt if you were…doing something."

"Um…I don't really sleep," Frankie muttered, shuffling by him wearing a pair of pajama pants, a gigantic New England Patriots jersey with 'Street' on the back and flip-flops. She sniffed, hugging the jersey around her. "It's cold, the heat isn't really working."

"Do you want me to look at it?"

"If you want."

Ryder shrugged off his hoodie, walking into the kitchen and found the hot water heater in a closet by the laundry room. He knelt down, removing the flap to the pilot light. He nodded. "You got matches and a flashlight? The pilot light is out."

"Oh…um…hang on." A few minutes later, Frankie returned with a flashlight app on her phone and a Zippo. Ryder figured that would do, reaching for the lighter and reached it in, relighting it and closing the flap, getting back up to his feet. She stared at him and then back to the water heater. "That was it?"

"That was it."

"I've been freezing my ass off for three days."

"You didn't want to get your dad to look at it?" Ryder asked. Three days, huh? He didn't think it had been three days since they'd kind of parted after their little snit at her parents' house. Guess it was.

Frankie shook her head, whispering, her forehead wrinkling. "No, um, he's…busy with my mother…" She turned around, promptly walking back into what he thought was like the master bedroom, but which had a couch, a few stands, a desk, and her instruments. She picked up her guitar, plucking a little on the strings, finally lifting her eyes back to his. The contrast from her previous look was a astonishing. She looked ready to cry, her eyes deep-set and shining and her cheeks suddenly drawn in, the skin pulled tight over her bones.

She set the guitar aside, her fingers raking through her hair, before she folded her hands before her lips, like she was praying. Ryder stepped towards her, sitting beside her on the couch. "What's going on Francesca?" he whispered. He didn't expect her to tell him.

"I…" She turned sideways, her lip curved upwards. "You don't care."

I care. He scowled. "I'm not heartless," he whispered.

"I didn't say you were, I just didn't think you'd care."

"Again, I'm not heartless. I care about other people."

She scowled. "You're just so aloof. You know? Why?"

"This isn't about me," he murmured, not wanting to get into it. Although why did he come here if not to get into it? He raked his hands over his head, dropping them to his knees and fell backwards into the couch. Frankie leaned backwards, turning towards him, her knees drawing up, almost to her chin. She looked very tiny in her over-large clothing. Ryder reached to touch her hand, dragging his finger over her bare wrist. He didn't know why. It was there. It was empty. No bangles or bracelets.

Frankie closed her eyes, murmuring. "I managed to get it out of my mom that she…" Her throat constricted visibly and when she opened her eyes, there were tears. "My mom is sick, but…she won't tell anyone. She…" She hiccupped. "She hasn't even officially told me, I managed to sneak around enough…"

Sick? Ryder moved closer to her. "What's wrong?" he whispered.

"She found a lump," Frankie said. She nodded quickly at Ryder's crestfallen face. "Yeah, she found a lump…she's getting in removed and they'll do a biopsy and all that stuff, but I don't know if it's really cancer or what's going on so I started researching…"

Oh no, you never looked on the Internet, Ryder thought, glancing at her open computer. He sighed as she continued talking, sobbing. "And I was reading about these anti-estrogen things they put some women on and one of the side effects is it makes your joints stiff and she…she's a freaking physical therapist, you know? She's always using her hands and she has to sign with TJ and…" She sobbed. "And TJ is so little and he doesn't understand why she's tired and my father is so freaking…" Frankie laughed, wiping at her face. "My dad usually deals with problems by pretending everything is fine, but I don't think he can say its all fine right now. My mom doesn't even know I know yet…so I can't talk to her about it…"

Why are you talking to me about it, Ryder wondered. He reached for her, when she began to cry. He thought he was witnessing something rare. Frankie Riggins was extremely sensitive, but she didn't cry. He wrapped his arms tight around her, enveloping her up, while she cried into his chest. He closed his eyes, feeling tired. This wasn't why he came over here, but at least the effect was the same. He was no longer thinking about his nightmare or that stupid box in his closet.

Right now he wanted to at least try to be there for Frankie. They might have a strange relationship he wasn't quite sure of, but he…well he cared for her, as hard as that was to admit. "I'm not good at this," he mumbled, reaching his arms around her and hugging her.

Frankie wiped at her eyes, her cheek against his shoulder. She laughed. "I think you're doing fine."

"Well thanks, but…" He chuckled. "I never know what to say."

"I don't want you to say anything." Frankie looked up, whispering. "I haven't even told my best friend…I don't know why I told you."

I don't know why either, only you can figure that out, Ryder thought, looking down at her. She wiped at her eyes again, sniffing and running her fingers beneath her nose, pulling away from him to lean over her knees, her feet coming back to the floor. She looked over her shoulder. "My parents don't know I know, I mean…I really snooped earlier. I couldn't take it, they were just…they were being so secretive and Mom was talking about how she'd have to have someone take over in a few weeks because she was going to be 'out of town'…" Frankie used air quotes for the last couple words. She sighed. "They didn't tell me."

"That makes you mad?" Ryder asked.

Frankie snorted. "In some ways, yeah, it infuriates me. I never did well with being kept in the dark. I got over it a lot of times, when I got older, but…" She fell backwards against the couch, whispering, staring ahead. "When you grow up and you don't know things and they just…they keep it from you and they're so obvious about it…all I wanted to know was where I came from. A lot of kids want to know. A lot of divorced kids who don't…don't know any better want to know."

"Did you ever find out?" Ryder had never had that issue. He shrugged, whispering. "I always knew where I was from. My parents were always…" He sighed. "Well they still have their moments where I wonder if divorce is on the horizon, but they manage to get through. Makes me think they got through worse so…so what's a little bit of marital discord, you know?"

She smiled. "My mom and dad cheated on their best friend and my mom's boyfriend. That's how they got together. Every little girl wants to know how daddy proposed to mommy and how their parents met and blah, blah, blah!" Frankie laughed, glancing sideways again, whispering. "My mom told me they met in high school. That was a lie. They've known each other since they were little. She made up some story about how they dated after her parents got divorced because my dad was nice to her or something, I don't know, but some of it was true. She's good at omission." She sighed hard. "Either way, she's still keeping things from me. I should know that she's sick. I shouldn't have to go snoop and look at medical bills and test results and steal her phone and listen to voicemails."

That's pretty intense. "Hardcore," Ryder whispered. He tried to smile. Frankie simply shrugged, getting up from the couch. He got up, following her into the living room, where she began to move paint around on the table. "So you've been painting all night?"

"Yeah. It calms me down a lot."

"No music?"

"That's just been frustrating me lately." Frankie picked up a paintbrush, swirling it through some paint. She approached an easel, just to set her brush down and return it to its jar of cleaner. "Forget it."

Ryder was getting a little tipsy from the fumes. He shook his head, looking at one of the windows. "I know it's cold, but you need some air. Come on, you should probably get out of here."

"What?"

"Just…" He thought of how being around all of his familiar things was…well it was comforting, but at times he needed a complete change of scenery. Just for a few minutes. It's part of what brought him to Texas to live after the Army. Otherwise he was contemplating moving to Ireland. He reached for her shoulders, turning her around. "Just trust me, okay? I know something about…about getting bad news."

"What sort of bad news did you get?" Frankie pulled out of his grasp. He frowned. She gestured to the room, laughing. "I have to get my guitar, I can't go anywhere without my guitar and my sketchbook."

"You should get them tattooed to you."

"I do."

Ryder frowned, staring at her as she emerged from her room with her guitar over her shoulder and her sketchbook in her hand. She shoved it into a battered messenger bag, along with a thing of pencils and paints. "Tattoo?" He scanned her from head to toe. She didn't have a tattoo. Not that he'd seen. "Where?"

Frankie tapped his nose. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

He rolled his eyes, walking after her from the house, closing the door behind him. She was already in his truck, waiting. He stopped, a few steps from the truck, looking at her. Just really looking at her. She looked so…troubled, he thought, frowning. He climbed up into the truck, glancing sideways again. Frankie was looking at him. "What?"

She shook her head, whispering. "Nothing. Let's just go, okay? I don't want to talk about it."

Ryder nodded, turning the engine over and backing out. He figured maybe they should talk, but…right now Frankie wasn't in the headspace for talking about the two of them. He drove back to his house and she set her things down, walking over to the couch and curling up in the corner, her eyes closing. He walked over, draping a blanket across her shoulders. She was fast asleep.

He went back upstairs and crawled into bed, closing his eyes. A few minutes later, so was he. And he didn't have a nightmare.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:**Thanks for the reviews! :)

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**Chapter 9**

Frankie sat in her Camaro, leaning back in the seat, staring at her mother out on the sidelines of the football field, directing some of the stretches the players were going through. She glanced sideways; Ryder was sitting beside her. "You should go back to work. I'm sorry I called you out here."

"Don't worry about it, I was driving around anyway." Ryder pushed his aviators back up on his nose. He sighed. "You know, you really need to talk to her. It's been two days."

Two days since she'd fallen asleep on his couch after admitting to him what she'd done, snooping around like she was thirteen again. She hadn't told anyone. Not Noah. Not her father. No one. Then Ryder showed up at midnight. He looked miserable, she didn't know what had upset him to the point of coming to find her at midnight, but…something had. Something he hadn't mentioned since.

She glanced at her phone; none of her bandmates had called, but she'd spoken briefly with Glen. He told her he'd give her another three weeks, but he had to have an answer by Christmas. Was she coming back or not? Because if she wasn't ready by then, he'd have to cancel everything. The band would have to take a hit and she…well she heard him pretty much hinting that they'd almost have to break up. I don't have to do anything, I don't want to break up, I just need to keep this…break. Frankie sighed again, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. "Alright. I'll go talk to her."

"Okay. I'm going back to work."

Without another word, Ryder left, getting into his sheriff's car and driving off. Frankie climbed out of the Camaro, holding her phone tight in her hand. She was halfway to the field when her phone rang. It was Noah. I really need to answer, she thought, answering and lifting it to her ear. "Hey Noah."

"Hey, um, you got a second?"

"Ah…yeah, I really need to talk to you about…about something…" Frankie felt bursting to talk to him all of a sudden. It had been days since they'd spoken. She turned from the football field, hurrying towards the parking lot. "Um…so I was just…" She trailed off, when Noah began to speak over her.

"Wait, I'm going to burst, I have to talk to you about something, this is…Frankie this is huge, huge, huge news…" Noah laughed. He groaned. "Oh my God! I want to be there with you to say this! I hate that I live in New York and…you know what, I'm flying out. I'll get the company plane, I'll fly out, and we can have like an entire weekend…"

You can't just say that and leave it, she thought, her face screwing up in curiosity. "Um…what's so big?" she laughed. She crossed her right arm over her stomach, swaying from side to side, listening to him. It was almost Thanksgiving. Couple days. They could talk then, she guessed, if he was going to be flying to Dillon. "You coming for Thanksgiving? The Taylors will be here and the whole family is getting together at Mom and Dad's house like usual…"

"I'm totally going to be there, I will definitely be there, but I have to tell you…so um, I lied about…about the Victoria's Secret model…" Noah laughed loudly. He yelled and it sounded like he was jumping around somewhere. "Frankie…I…I met this woman and I…she's got a kid! I mean, can you believe it, she's got this five-year old and I love this kid, he's hilarious, but anyway, so…um…I…"

Frankie knew what he was going to say before he said it, her stomach plummeting. He yelled that he was getting married, just when she closed her eyes, tears pricking in the corners. She hung her head, her hand covering her cheek. "Oh my God," she mumbled. It was too fast. I don't even know this person. Damnit, she thought, closing her eyes tight as he rattled on. "Oh my God," she repeated, louder, so he stopped talking.

"I know! Can you believe it!? It's just so fast, but I love her so much!"

I can't tell him about my mother. I just can't. Frankie turned in circles a few times. She pushed her paint stained fingers through her hair, tugging at some of the strands, which were held together with paint, a common occurrence in her life. "Oh my God, Noah!" she laughed. She felt her heart fill with happiness for her best friend, while her stomach remained on the floor. "That's…wow! I just…that's amazing! You didn't want to tell me you were dating someone so serious?" Could I be more fake happy, she thought, closing her eyes again.

Which of course, as her best friend, he sensed. Noah sighed. "Frankie don't get mad, I was just…I didn't want to hear you telling me not to get involved with someone with a kid."

She took objection to that. "I wouldn't…"

"Yes, you would have."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay fine, I would have." Yes, she would have. She would have judged and told him to run away, because eventually he'd get bored and what would he do with a kid, you know? He worked all the time and he adamantly said he didn't want kids until he was done with what he wanted in his career. She closed her eyes. This wasn't how…how it was supposed to go…plus, you know he was her backup, if she decided she wanted kids in twenty years and neither of them were married or anything.

And I'm his best friend; he didn't…Frankie glared at a rock, focusing her energy on the damn rock. She wanted to throw it. "You know you could have told me," she snapped, interrupting how he was saying that Jessica was just this amazing person, he was completely head over heels for her and her kid. She didn't even know her name. Jessica? I don't know my best friend's fiancee's name. How was that right? She fisted her hand at her side. No one was including her. Noah didn't want to talk to her about his life…he told her everything! The band didn't want her craziness anymore, when it had gotten them all famous…she didn't want to deal with her leftover emotions for Isaac…she was so…so…

Noah abruptly stopped talking about Jessica, bringing her back to earth. "Frankie what's wrong? I thought you'd be happy for me!"

Happy? No. No, I'm not happy. "I'm angry!" she burst out. She covered her mouth with her hand, dropping it down to her side. Yes, yes that was it. She curled her fingers into a fist again, scowling at the rock on the ground by her toe. "Noah, I'm happy for you, don't get me wrong, but I'm your best…"

His voice cooled. "You're my best friend Frankie, but we're not teenagers anymore. This isn't like you can call me in the middle of the night to say that your dad's chopping down a tree outside your room because your boyfriend got caught climbing into your room." Noah laughed a little. He was probably pacing through his office or apartment. "Frankie you're my best friend and I love you like…like a sister, but sometimes you don't get to know everything. We've been through this for years."

That didn't mean shit right now, in her opinion. "You can still tell me when you're thinking of marrying a woman with a child. In fact, you could tell me you're dating a woman with a child!" Frankie yelled. She looked back at the football field when a long whistle blew. It was break time. Lyla was heading into the field-house. "I have to go. I have a lot going on right now."

Noah sneered. "Yes Frankie, your little meltdown. I've been reading all about it. Talk about being a best friend, you haven't bothered telling me what really happened. I have to read about it in People magazine."

I don't care. She scowled, whispering. "Yeah Noah, well, you haven't bothered asking." She hung up, shoving her phone into her back pocket. She hurried to the field-house, Noah disappearing from her mind when she saw her mother, standing in the training room, reviewing an X-ray on a light box.

Lyla stood with her heels rocked back slightly, one hand holding up the scan and the other running over it, tracing bone with her fingertips. She had a smile on her lips, a happy expression on her face, clearly in her element. Or one of her elements. She didn't look over, her voice soft, sensing. "Hello Frankie."

My mother can see everything, Frankie thought, stepping into the training room. "Hey Mom."

"You've come to talk?" Lyla lowered the X-ray, turning off the light box. She turned around, walking into the trainer's office, replacing the X-ray into an envelope and set it aside, her fingertips touching the blotter. It was neat and orderly, like the rest of the office. There was a photo on the desk, turned towards the two chairs in front of it, so everyone could see the four of them, a happy family sitting on the front porch steps, all wearing Dillon shirts, taken when TJ was a toddler. It was one of those things that Lyla had demanded they have, no matter how much complaining Tim and Frankie put forth. Tim had changed his shirt to a different color at the last minute, in his dare to be different, but it didn't matter. Lyla still got her happy family portrait, Frankie thought, smiling and turning it slightly.

She looked up, whispering. "Yeah, I've come to talk…I…sorry I haven't been around."

"Well you've been working."

"I guess."

Lyla walked around the desk, linking her arm through Frankie's, leading her out of the field-house. They bumped shoulders and she grinned. "Why don't you and I have a mother and daughter day? We haven't had a chance to really talk and…and I know that you keep your feelings under the belt, you're very much like your father that way, but Frankie…" Lyla turned her around, reaching to cup her face, concerned. "You left LA. That alone is..." she sighed. "I know the rumors about you and Isaac. I know he hurt you and I know you're trying to cope with that through the music, but…" She cocked her head, her voice soft. Her eyebrows lifted, knowingly. "I also know about you and Ryder."

Ryder and I are friends. A rocky start, an interesting start actually, but nevertheless we're friends. Hell, he comes to my house at midnight just for some company and I fall asleep on his couch for comfort. Frankie pushed her hair out of her eyes, scanning the football field and stadium. She pursed her lips. Just say it Frankie. She turned to Lyla, who was waiting patiently. "Mom…" She swallowed hard. This was harder than she thought, but…but it had to be done. She dug deep, lifted her chin, and spoke, her voice clear. "Mom I saw the medical stuff…the reason you've been so…worried lately and why Dad's been all distant. You're sick, aren't you? Is it cancer?" There. I said it. The dreaded 'c-word.' Frankie's heart pounded against her ribcage. She fisted her hands at her sides, whispering. "Mom please talk to me." I can't believe I'm begging again. I feel like I'm thirteen asking about why you and Dad divorced. That seemed so long ago. It seemed so stupid now.

I hate my mother sometimes, Frankie thought, seeing her mom just smile, serene, looking away for a moment and then back up, her face now a mask of emotions. Lyla walked towards her, wrapping her arms tight around her shoulders, whispering. "I love you."

No, don't say that. "Mom," she sobbed. "Please."

"It's nothing serious," Lyla laughed. Frankie frowned; why the hell was she laughing if she had cancer? "Oh baby, I'm sorry, I didn't want to worry you…I only found out a couple of weeks ago…"

"Weeks!?"

"Right after you got into town," Lyla whispered, her hand smoothing over her cheek. She smiled again, her thumb raking over her cheekbone. She shook her head, using her soothing 'motherly' voice. "Frankie I thought I found something, I went in and did all that you're supposed to do, they did a scan, and there's…there's some stuff there, okay?"

"Stuff? What kind of stuff, cancer?" Frankie wanted answers. This wasn't what she wanted.

Lyla shook her head, whispering. "Frankie…"

"Mom!" I'm not a child; don't treat me like one. Frankie pulled out of her arms, turning and glaring at her. "Just tell me, I'm not a kid, you don't have to fly out to Texas to break it to me you're getting a divorce, okay? Just…tell me." It'll be easier if you do.

Lyla leaned back against her desk, crossing her arms over her chest. She was still smiling. "Frankie they did a biopsy."

"And?" Just tell me, damnit.

"Honey I wanted to do this…"

"I don't care, tell me!" she shouted. I'm going to start trashing this place or something; I have to know. Or else my heart is going to explode in my chest. She sobbed. "Mommy please."

And then she saw the fear in her mother's face. The quick flicker as Lyla Garrity began to grow uncertain. She glanced away, waited a second, and returned her gaze back to Frankie. "Frankie I'm not going to use the word cancer, if that's what you want, because I don't know, okay? The doctor is still doing their diagnoses…"

"Mom it's like a million years from when Grandma had breast cancer, okay?" Frankie yelled. "Isn't there like a pill or something?"

Now Lyla was getting exasperated. She flung her hands up in the air. "No Frankie, there's no pill, okay? I'm going in after Thanksgiving to have the lumpectomy, they'll tell me then, all right? They'll tell me if I have type two or three or hell, if my lymphnodes are involved. They'll tell me if I have to have chemo or radiation, but Frankie?" She sobbed, covering her face with her hands, quickly letting her hands fall and shaking her head again, trying to keep that strong look on her face, but it was beginning to fail. "Frankie I have a lot going on right now, alright? Your brother has another surgery for his Cochlear after Christmas and your father thinks that this is just something that can go away if he ignores it so I have to do the research and the bills and the phone calls all on my own!" She released another sob, covering her mouth quickly, her words faltering. "And he's supposed to be…he's my…and I can't do this…" She cried again. "I just can't."

The last few words faltered from her lips and she closed her eyes, slumping a little on the desk. Oh my God. Oh my God, Frankie thought again, snapping up. She was numb, approaching her mother. She wrapped her arms around Lyla, holding tight, her eyes wide. "It's okay," she murmured, smoothing her hand over her mother's back. Lyla Garrity always took care of her. It's what mothers did. She closed her eyes, whispering. "It's okay."

Lyla pulled away, whispering and wiping at her eyes. "I'm sorry Frankie, I didn't mean to put this on you. It's why I didn't tell you."

You had to put it on someone. The person who should be getting it doesn't handle these types of situations very well. Frankie looked down at their hands, which were entwined. "Mom…"

The mask was back. The 'it will all be fine if I remain strong and take charge' mask; Frankie knew it well. "I'm fine now, sorry sweetie, I didn't mean to put that all on you, I'll be fine." Lyla kissed her cheek, squeezing her hard, whispering. "I love you. So much." She smiled wide. "It's going to be fine Frankie. You just focus on yourself right now." Her eyes began to sparkle. "So what's with you and Ryder?"

My mother, ladies and gentlemen, just told me she might have cancer, that she's doing it alone because my dad is clueless, but she is now pumping me for information on a boy, Frankie thought, her eyes widening slightly. Talk about denial. She laughed, shaking her head, whispering. "Ah…I don't really know, he's…he's a friend."

"Like Noah?"

Frankie thought of Noah. Noah and his fiancée. That he didn't tell her about at all. She shook her head, whispering. "No, not like Noah. Not really."

"Be careful with him." Lyla shrugged at Frankie's curious look. She sighed, whispering. "Look, I'm…I've been with your father now for…however many years we've been together and not together, but…his family and I are not ever really on the greatest terms. Mindy is much closer with Becky and…well Tim talks to me and I know some things…nothing serious or bad, but…I mean honey you don't get awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for no reason…"

Wait…Frankie lifted her head, staring. What? Cross… She shook her head, whispering. "I'm sorry…a medal? Like…like one of those really important…" She closed her eyes. Son of a bitch. The night he'd come to her house, two days ago. He looked like…like he just wanted company. Nightmare. Oh shit. You didn't usually get one of those things, that she was aware, without seeing something bad. "I have to go."

"You didn't know?" Lyla asked. She lifted her eyebrows. "I mean…I thought that you would have known…it's why he came back…he lost like his entire team, Frankie. He almost died too."

No I didn't know. Jesus. "No, Mom, I…I'm coming to dinner tonight. We're going to talk about this cancer thing." She arched her eyebrow, her voice hard. "With Dad. No exceptions." If there was one person who could make her father listen, it was her. Even when Lyla couldn't. She hugged her mother tight, whispering she loved her. Very much. Frankie closed her eyes tight, letting go and leaving the training room after promising she would come by the house that evening.

We're two days from Thanksgiving and this is shaping up to be a doozy of a holiday. Frankie got in her car, driving off towards the sheriff's station. She didn't see his car there, so she turned around, driving towards his house. Ryder was going to talk to her. Frankie also knew what that meant. It meant she'd have to talk back. She drove to her house, calling him repeatedly on his phone. "Call me, I need to talk to you. Now." She parked her car, walking up to the front door and knocking. "Ryder! Are you in there?" He parked his cars in the garage and the door was down. She banged louder. "Ryder!"

The door flung back. "What?" he demanded. He laughed. "Geez, you're blowing up my phone, you're banging on my door. What's going on? Did you talk to your mom?"

She nodded quickly, her voice quiet. Just looked at him made her want to collapse into a puddle. There was too much. Just too much. She stared at him, her voice soft. "My mom…my mom has cancer. My dad seems like he thinks it's…it's like a normal day or something. I…" Frankie's voice faltered, her eyes closing tight. "My best friend in the entire world is getting married to a single mother that he just met and he didn't even bother to tell me until today. My drummer and ex-boyfriend helped kick me out of my band because I was trying to get over our relationship by throwing myself into music and now he wants me back…" She took a deep breath, her voice calm. "And you are having nightmares because you went through something terrible and you didn't tell me, but you come to my house for company? Explain."

My life could not be more convoluted if I tried. Frankie arched an eyebrow, whispering. "You can tell me what happened to you or I can find out on my own. I'll do it. I've done it before. It would just be a lot easier if you told me and you can, but…" She closed her eyes again, laughing. I'm getting dizzy. "I need to sit down."

Ryder whistled under his breath, stepping back and she walked into the house. He closed the door, coming up behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. "You need a break Frankie. Wasn't Dillon supposed to be that?"

"Yes," she whispered. It was a break from Isaac. From the band. It was just turning into a regular old family visit though, with craziness. She turned her face up to his, whispering. "Why didn't you tell me you had a nightmare the other night? That that's why you came to the house?"

He cocked his head, his lips pressed into a line. He took a deep breath, his eyes closing. "Because," he whispered, opening his eyes again. He shrugged. "Because I have to relive it. Over and over and I didn't feel like going over it again."

She tucked her hair behind her ear. "You said the Army screwed you. Gave you a medal for your troubles."

"You have a good memory."

"I have an identic memory," she murmured, tapping her temple. "Photographic."

Ryder sighed again, whispering. "I know you want to know, but…I…" he stammered, reaching to push his hand through his hair, shaking his head, his face crestfallen. "I just can't right now Frankie."

That's fine. She nodded. Made sense. She fell backwards into the La-Z-Boy, whispering. "My mother has cancer," she murmured. The more she said it, the easier it got to understand it. Even if it wasn't even proven yet, but…hell if she kept thinking it, then maybe if the news was bad, she'd be able to handle it. She looked up at him. He was just staring down at her. She quirked her lip up. "My band troubles are absolutely meaningless now. I don't care if I ever go back again." Frankie honestly meant that. The band…Isaac…albums and songs…it was nothing. It was absolutely nothing compared to her family. Tears pricked in the corners of her eyes. They began to fall down her cheeks, freely. She looked up at Ryder, hiccupping. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, covering her face, crying into her hands. "I'm not normally like this!"

He barked out a laugh, sitting beside her and wrapping his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. He said nothing, just like two nights ago, when she'd cried into his shoulder. Frankie didn't know which end of the world was up and right now she was being comforted by one of the hardest people she'd ever known. Ryder whispered. "Do you want me to call anyone? Noah or something?"

She shook her head. "No. I don't want to talk to anyone." She sighed, whispering and closing her eyes. "I just want to sit here for a few minutes." Decompress, she thought, releasing a long breath and leaning harder against Ryder. She swallowed hard, whispering. "This isn't all about me you know. Will you tell me about why you got that medal? About why you came to see me?"

Ryder blew out a long breath. He waited a few minutes, hesitated, and then whispered. "Yes. Just not right now." Okay. I can handle that, she thought, her head dropping to his shoulder.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Ryder was very uncomfortable.

There were people everywhere.

He stepped aside as another child; he believed it was a Saracen or Taylor, given the blond head, ran right by him. Absolutely none of the Riggins kids had blond hair except for Steve, who was far larger than this little knee-high one. He looked across the kitchen where Lyla was directly Tim on how to properly do something with the turkey. She seemed to have more energy than earlier this morning, when he'd come by, bringing wine and beer, which Frankie told him would be fine.

"Hey Ryder, come in the living room, we're watching football," Gracie said, nudging him away from the organized chaos, while her mother-in-law, Tami, whom Ryder had yet to properly speak with, was peeling potatoes and Mindy was doing something with green beans, Gracie's sister Julie was talking about some interview she had to prepare for, and well, he couldn't follow the myriad of conversations that were going on at one time.

Ryder linked his arm through Gracie's. "So how come you're not in Detroit with Steve?"

"Because I don't like flying and I'm seven months, too late to fly," Gracie said, smiling and sitting down on the couch beside Ryan. She pushed him over to make more room for her feet, which she propped up off the floor, kicking off her ankle boots. "Move your butt, pregnant lady gets more room."

Ryan groaned, moving over. "Have any of you seen my brother?"

"Yeah, he's on the TV," Billy said, stretched back in Tim's La-Z-Boy. He called out. "Timmy! Bring me another beer when you're done being Martha Stewart…ow!" He looked up. Tim had knocked him in the forehead with a bottle as he came in from the kitchen. "Thanks man."

"Get out of my chair."

"No, I'm the elder."

Coach Eric Taylor walked in from outside. "No, I'm the elder," he announced. He smiled across the room at Ryder. "Ryder, good to see you son." He strode over, reaching to shake Ryder's hand, firm but quick. "How are you doing now that you're out of the Army?"

"Ah…fine," Ryder thought, squinting slightly. He'd only met Coach Taylor a few times. Now that they were back in Texas, with Eric coaching at Texas Tech, he'd seen him a bit more since his childhood. He wondered how Eric knew he was back in Dillon. "Have you spoken with my father lately?"

"Certainly, I interviewed him for an assistantship at Texas Tech last year, but he decided to stay in Dillon." Eric chuckled, walking with Ryder into the hall. "Can't say I blame him." He glanced back into the living room. Tim and Billy were in fact wrestling for the chair. Gracie ignored them, focusing on her husband, who was throwing a hell of a game that afternoon, and Ryan texted. Matt was nowhere to be found. "Doesn't seem like your scene, Ryder."

Not particularly. Ryder shrugged. "I tend to keep out of other people's business, but somehow I get sucked in. Especially with this lot."

Eric nodded, sighing under his breath, looking back at the mess. "Tell me about it. I only speak with a few of my former players, but this entire crew…I'm godfather to their children, I still don't know how that happened."

He chuckled; felt kind of like how he was. Sucked into this crew, whether he wanted to be or not. Steve was one of his best friends, not that he had many. Ryan was somehow his friend. They were incredibly close with their families, which brought them into Ryder's orbit. His mother was close with Mindy and Billy. They practically were his family too. Ryder glanced to the door, Frankie walking inside holding TJ's hand. Lori and Henry Saracen, one four and the other ten, wandered in after her, going to the kitchen. They were followed by their father, Matt.

So that was Matt, Ryder thought, finally seeing him in person. He excused himself from Coach Taylor, who was getting pulled aside by Buddy, who had just showed up. This house was too small. He went over to Frankie. "Hey."

"Hello," she greeted him. She gestured to Matt. "This is my mentor, Matt. Matt, this is Ryder Cafferty."

"Hey…" Matt pointed at him, laughing as he shook his hand. "You're…you're the British guy that called about her painting." He frowned instantly when Frankie shot him a dark look. "Ah…um, maybe you're not…" He shook his head, laughing. "No, no that was another British guy."

Too late, cat was out of the bag. He lifted an eyebrow, glancing down at Frankie, who was scowling, her arms crossed. "You called and pretended to be British?"

"I can be entirely British love," he said, using his thickest accent, which only came out when he was actually in England. He laughed when she lightly punched his elbow. "Come off it, I was just looking at the prices. It's how I figured it out."

Matt sipped at his beer. "I told you to enjoy the free painting." He shrugged at Frankie's scowl again. "So when am I getting the new batch? I have some buyers lined up for you." A light pink tinged his cheeks. "And I told you to stop calling me your mentor."

Frankie wrapped her arm around Matt's shoulders, kissing his cheek. Her voice was quiet. Ryder thought it was fairly loving, like she might speak to her father if she had a normal relationship with him. "You are my mentor. I learned everything about painting from you. Otherwise I'd still be doing swirls."

"Those are your best pieces."

"You're just saying that because you're my mentor," she teased, kissing his cheek one more time and let go of him. She pushed Ryder lightly in the small of his back. "We'll talk later Matt. Ryder, come along now, I need to speak with you."

Duty calls, he thought, glancing at Frankie's expression. She ignored her father, walking straight by him, leading Ryder upstairs and into TJ's room. She closed the door, walking across to a window and pushed it up. A few seconds later, she was sitting on the roof, looking out at the land. Ryder leaned on the window frame, looking out at her. "Why are you on the roof?"

"This house usually isn't this crazy, but Thanksgiving is one of those times." She sighed hard, frowning. "I needed a breather."

"Did you talk to your parents about your mom?"

She nodded quickly, whispering. "Yesterday," she laughed, looking down at him. She ran her tongue over her teeth. "My dad is so clueless, but…I think he's processing it in his own way." She sighed, chuckling. "I don't understand how my parents have managed to be together as long as they have. There's a reason they divorced, but somehow they got over it. Mom will go in for her surgery next week. Dad will just treat it like it's a teeth cleaning, because I think it makes him feel better, otherwise he'd be drinking himself to death, and we'll go from there, once the results are in." She blew out a long breath, her eyes fluttering closed. "Dad's strong, he's…he's strong in a way I don't think very many people could ever be. So is Mom. They'll just do this the way they've done everything else." She quirked her lips, in a tiny smile, and stared off at the horizon, her voice breathy. "They'll be strong."

Ryder climbed out onto the roof to join her, because his knees were killing him from kneeling at the windowsill listening to her speaking. He rubbed at his left one, wincing at the pain. Scar tissue, the doctor told him at the last appointment. He glanced at Frankie, who was watching him. He sighed. Guess it was about time he told her. They'd been hanging out for two weeks. He'd told her he would. Eventually. "What?" he mumbled.

"Nothing. Are we friends?"

What? He blinked. "Friends?"

"Yes, friends." Frankie looked out at the land. It was really beautiful. The sun was out today, not a cloud in the sky. The air was really crisp though. It would probably frost in the evening. She leaned back on her hands. "You know, people who are friendly. Do things for each other; know things about each other. Friends. We've kissed twice, I think that makes us more than friends. You also arrested me."

"And I apologized for that, because you apologized for speeding and talking back."

"You're an ass a lot of the time."

"Aloof," he corrected.

Frankie rolled her eyes, her voice soft. "You've seen me break down twice. You're the only one of my friends to know about my mother. You even know about Isaac and me."

Ryder squinted against the sunlight. Not really. "No," he murmured. "I really don't know about you and Isaac, but I don't really care. What's with you and Noah Street?" He wasn't sure how he felt about that particular relationship. Talk about not knowing much.

She blew by that without an answer, continuing. "My mom said you got the Distinguished Service Cross. I looked it up." She continued, after a brief pause. "It's the second highest honor in the Armed Forces, behind the Medal of Honor. What did you do to get that? What happened in Afghanistan?" She looked sideways again, whispering. "Take my mind off of my life, Ryder. Tell me. I'll find out, I told you. I want to know now."

Well then by all means, I'll break down for you, he thought sarcastically. Spoiled brat. He didn't want to talk about it; he never wanted to talk about it. He closed his eyes. It was like he was there again. He flinched, feeling his left knee collapse as the avionics board fell on him. It was hot. The fire was behind him. Rotor was still going. His eyes opened. It was gone. Muted. Just Texas in front of him, the sound of yells from downstairs and football going strong. It smelled like Thanksgiving. He wondered when they'd eat. He was getting hungry.

You want to know now, huh? Hell, why do I like you? "Ryder," she murmured. HE shook his head, reaching down to his ankle. "What are you doing?" Frankie asked. Just shut up, he thought, pulling at the bottom of his jeans and tugging the left leg of them up and over his knee.

Ryder glanced at her, whispering. "How do you think this happened?"

Frankie looked at the ugly twisted scars. She shrugged. "Bad hit in football?"

I'm not joking right now Francesca, he scowled. She mumbled an apology. Ryder pushed his jeans back over his knee, tugging it over the top of his hiking boots. He tapped his toes together, waiting a second and sighed once more, whispering. "At Westpoint I was kind of like an MP. I monitored the newbies, I was planning on making a career out of it, until we did rotations the second summer and I got to fly in a Blackhawk." He closed his eyes, smiling. It was amazing. Luke had always been Special Forces or Intelligence, so he'd never gotten to hear about the cooler aspects of being in the Army. "I decided to change my career path. I wanted to be a helicopter pilot."

The surprise lifted her eyebrows clear to her hairline. "You can fly planes?"

"No," he laughed. He shook his head, grinning. "I can fly helicopters. I don't have a pilot's license for commercial or private aircraft."

"So you can fly a helicopter?"

"Not legally. I don't have a commercial license. Uncle Sam calls me to fly one, yes, I can. You want me to hijack the 9News traffic chopper and yes, I can fly it, will I? No. It violates rules and laws."

Frankie snorted. "We all know you don't do that," she chuckled. She cocked her head again. Curious. Sometimes she reminded him of a spaniel he was allowed to have when they lived off base in England. Always curious, always looking and wondering. "Come on. What happened?"

"It was a year and a half ago," he murmured. He closed his eyes, beginning to speak softly. "We were going out into the Hindu Kush. It's nasty, Frankie. It's always been nasty. I flew Apaches. Those are attack helicopters. We were supporting a special operations mission…" He sighed, whispering. "It didn't go well. They got pinned. We were providing support while the Blackhawks tried to get in to rescue them. Fire coming everywhere. Then the fuckers showed up with SAMs." He glanced at her confused look. "Ah…surface-to-air-missiles. Little assholes had shoulder rockets too. RPGs…they were bad shots, but when one of them explodes right by you in a mountainside, raining rocks on your chopper, it's still not good…anyways…so the team is pinned, the Blackhawks can't get in and are forced to withdraw…"

He was starting to get into dangerous territory. The report he'd read earlier in the week was the final, redacted version. It was all lies. It covered up the brass, the ones who sent them in knowing it was too dangerous, who sent them in on bad intelligence that just about every single analyst and officer from every three-letter agency was discounting, and without backup, which they had to scramble to provide. He ran his tongue over his teeth. "I can't tell you everything."

"Too painful?"

"A lot is still classified."

"Oh." Frankie giggled. "People actually say that?" She covered quickly, mumbling another apology. It wasn't something to joke about, Frankie, he thought, holding his arms around his knees. She nudged her shoulder against his, whispering. "Go on. Tell me what you can. How'd you hurt your knee?"

Okay. That I can tell you. "Chopper went down." He felt the fire again, at his back. Licking at his back. So he told her, voice soft, about how the chopper had gone down. How he'd had the entire avionics board collapse onto his knee. Compound fracture. He thought he'd lost the lower part of his leg, actually, but he'd had to get Jack, his co-pilot out. Jack had been burned, but he got him out. They had to hide in the rocks, but there were still the other guys. The other Apache went down, his friends…his team…He'd crawled back to help them, with Jack, and they pulled them out.

All he could think of was blood, though. "It was everywhere," he whispered. He looked at her, breathing shallowly. Frankie just had an impassive expression on her face. He'd seen that look on Tim a few times. She was processing it in her own way. He held his hands out, whispering. "It was all over everything. It was because Quinn, the other Apache pilot, his…" He touched his neck, his voice catching. "Carotid. Got severed. I didn't know until hours later. I thought he was just passed out…"

They'd had to hide. Some of it was blurry, when his body was about to give out as adrenaline wore off. Then he'd move his leg and it would come coursing back again, blocking out the pain of his leg, his mind moving on the whole 'flight or fight' instinct, doing everything you could to survive. He'd pulled three other guys out.

Only three out of the ten of them on the mountainside made it out alive. A Special Forces guy, Michael, who made it out with a few gunshots, including one to his shooting hand, so he was done, Al, who made it out with an amputated leg, and him. About ten surgeries to fix his leg, he'd almost lost it, and a few shrapnel wounds. Jack made it out, but died of his injuries weeks later.

He released another breath, which rattled in his lungs. He swallowed, his throat constricting, whispering. "We called so much for backup. For hours, we called, and were just told no. No, no, no, we were told. We shouldn't have gone in there anyways…but we did, because it was orders." He glanced sideways. "Initial investigation showed that some general sent us in on bad intel. He'd been told…nonstop he'd been told it probably wasn't real. So he sent in the Special Forces and it was all a trap. Then we had to go in and we wanted more help. Heavy firepower, that sort of thing. Nope. But we did it. Six guys died. They gave me a medal to shut me up. I was the only one who was conscious the entire time. From beginning to end. Pure adrenaline."

He ran his tongue over his teeth, whispering. "My CO put me in for the Medal of Honor. A congressman found out, starting pushing it up to the highest levels." He glanced at Frankie again. "It got pushed back. I wouldn't shut my mouth up. I kept telling them it was wrong, that they weren't telling the truth. Didn't matter. I really don't care, actually, doesn't bring back my friends." Quinn was one of his best friends. They were roommates. Quinn had two kids and a wife. What did he have? Nothing.

Ryder shook his head, whispering. "I don't' put up with shit Frankie. That's why you think I'm…mean or whatever."

"Brusque," she said.

"Yeah, brusque. There's no point in it. They gave me the Distinguished Service Cross. I came back to Texas because I can't fly." He moved his feet up and down, his left knee moving, but he shook his head. "On the pedals? I can't move them fast enough. Knee is completely rebuilt. They wouldn't pass me on the flight physical."

"So you became a cop," Frankie said.

He nodded, sighing. So I became a cop. Went back to my first choice career, ebfore he'd had a taste of the air. "Yeah. Dillon's not bad. I like it. I was planning on moving to Ireland. Maybe getting a farm or something, but…my dad was talking retirement at the same time I got discharged. He wanted to move back to Texas and I thought, well, maybe I'll go with them. So we all ended up here. Dad and Mom are happy living their lives, sometimes separate, sometimes together, and so am I."

"But you have nightmares." Ryder looked over the edge of the roof. He waved; TJ was staring at them, frowning and slightly confused. He made a quick sign, Ryder glancing to Frankie for translation. Frankie signed back, shouting. "We'll be down in a second!" She looked at him. "Turkey's ready, we're going to eat." She looked down at her hand, resting beside his. Very quickly, she moved, squeezing his hand tightly and leaned in, wrapping her free arm around his neck, breathing into his ear. "Thank you for sharing that with me."

"I didn't necessarily do it for you," he said. It felt kind of relieving that someone else knew. Like ripping off a bandaid. Hurt while you were doing it, but felt better afterward. But still. He understood what she was trying to say. Ryder closed his eyes. "Thanks for listening."

Frankie pulled back, her lips settling on his for a brief moment. She removed them a second later, her eyelashes fluttering. She sighed, smiling wider. "Come on, it's a big thing on who gets the wishbone. Last year was Tami and my grandpa. Tami won. My grandpa threw a temper tantrum. Let's see if it happens again."

He chuckled, climbing after her through the window. She replaced the screen, like an expert, and shut it, flicking the lock. "I hope you realize that TJ probably wants to climb out on the roof now too."

"Oh he can try, but he's afraid of heights." Frankie left the room, bumping into her father. "Hey, is everyone downstairs?"

"On the porch, your mom and Mrs. Taylor have it in their heads to do some sort of rustic themed thing. Tyra just got here," Tim said, lightly patting Frankie's shoulder as she went down the stairs. Ryder was about to follow suit, but Tim pressed his finger into Ryder's shoulder, pushing him back a step. Wow, you're strong, Ryder thought, lifting his eyebrows as Tim stared him down. Great. This couldn't end well. "Look," Tim whispered. He cocked his head slightly. "I don't keep tabs on my kid. She's an adult, but she's going through a lot right now…especially now…" he swallowed hard, whispering. He looked scared for a second. "I'm sure she's told you about Lyla."

That explained why he looked scared. Ryder nodded, curt. "Yes."

"Frankie will kill me for saying this," Tim said. He glanced over his shoulder, to make sure that he wasn't being overheard. "Um…look, she's…she's kind of…" He sighed, shaking his head. "I hate doing this, but just don't mess with her Ryder. You're a good guy, okay? Just don't mess with her." His voice softened, almost a plea. "Please." He let go of Ryder's shoulder, turning around and going down the stairs.

What was that about? Ryder ran his tongue over his teeth. I don't plan on messing with her. Frankie was fragile right now. He didn't plan on taking advantage of it. I'm not that type of a guy, he thought, watching Tim disappear around the corner at the bottom of the staircase. He shoved his hands into his pockets, closing his eyes. A second later, he opened them, jumping back when TJ appeared in front of him. "Oh, hello," he said, waving slightly.

TJ signed quickly. "Hi." He pursed his lips and moved his hands slowly, spelling out his name. "Ryder."

Frankie had showed him how to spell his name in ASL, but that wasn't it. Ryder mimicked the hand positions Frankie showed him. "That's how you spell my name," he said.

The little boy giggled, shaking his head. "No," he said, still signing while he spoke. "Too long. Ryder." He did the sign again.

"Hey sweetness, whatcha' doing?" Ryder looked up again; this time Mrs. Taylor had emerged behind TJ. She smiled, watching TJ sign up to her. "Ah, I see." She glanced at Ryder, her silvery-red hair pulled back in a knot at the base of her neck, some strands falling in her eyes. She tucked them back, glancing at TJ again, who made the sign. "Okay, I get it."

"What?" Ryder asked. He frowned. "You know ASL?"

"Not very well, but I make it a habit to always learn new things," Tami said. She signed to TJ, who was off, giggling. She made the sign again, explaining. "Your name can be spelled out, but with all the other hand movements, it can get confusing and long-winded to keep spelling it, so people sometimes make up signs for their names. You know how TJ does this?" She tucked her thumb between her index and ring finger and then brought it from her temple to her chin. "That's two signs in one. He's making the sign for father," she explained, drawing just her thumb down to her chin. And she made the movement again, thumb tucked under. "And T."

"Tim," Ryder concluded.

Tami nodded. She made the movement TJ had made, smiling. "This is the word for policeman." And then she crossed her fingers. "And R."

Ryder. He chuckled. "That's cool."

"He likes you, he's a very sweet little boy. I haven't seen him in ages, he's gotten so big." Tami reached out to stroke at his upper arm, her face comforting. "How are you sweetheart? I spoke with your mother yesterday, when we drove in to town. Usually we stay at Matt's old house, but it seems like Frankie is there for the foreseeable future." She continued right by Frankie, speaking soft. "She told me that you've been doing well as a sheriff. You like it."

"It pays the bills." It gave him something to do.

"Have you pursued piloting again?"

Ryder smiled fast. Thanks Mom, for sharing my life story with everyone. "No, bad knee." He tapped it with his thumb. "Can't move on the pedals."

That didn't seem to be enough to stop Tami Taylor. She smiled again, her eyes crinkling up. "Well your mother said you were never happier when you were flying in a helicopter. Surely there's some way you could at least get a license to fly for pleasure."

I don't know, maybe there was, but if he couldn't fly an Apache, he wasn't going to fly anything else and get some job with a hospital flying MetroFlights or traffic choppers for a news station. He smiled again, his voice firmer, hopefully ending this confirmation. "What's done is done." He lifted his chin slightly, meeting Tami's eyes. "I think it's time for dinner."

She pursed her lips, nodding and stepping aside. "Of course."

Thank God, he thought, slipping by her and going downstairs. He turned around, going into the kitchen, where his mother and father had shown up, Luke holding a case of beer, while Becky juggled children. I hope those are Saracen kids, he thought, frowning briefly. "Hey Mom," he said, kissing her cheek. "Can I help you?"

"I'm fine, how are you baby? Give me another kiss." Aw, Mom, he thought, making a face after she kissed him again. He looked over at Frankie, who was helping TJ with the mashed potatoes, making them into a volcano. Lyla breezed by, chiding them both saying not to play with food and just get it on the plate and get outside so Coach Taylor could say grace.

It's like a buffet system, he thought quickly, realizing with the amount of people here there was no physical way they could juggle that many dishes onto the hodge podge of picnic tables set up outside. "Garrity!" Tim whined. "I'm hungry hurry up!"

"Shut up Riggins!" Lyla yelled outside. She lifted her foot, lightly tapping her toes to his butt as he came into the house and she juggled dishes. "Get in there and carve the turkey!"

"Coach Taylor does that."

"I just want to eat," Eric announced, looking exhausted, his eyes closed and his chin in his hand as one of his grandchildren chattered at his side about getting the wishbone.

Across the kitchen, Ryder met Frankie's eyes. She smiled, letting go of TJ and walking over to him, looping her arm through his. She rose on her toes, grinning. "Relax, it'll simmer down when the tryptophan and the alcohol kick in. Then everyone passes out and the volume level returns to normal." She tugged him outside onto the porch, pushing him into a spot beside her at the table. "Sit beside me, I'll guide you."

Thank God, he thought, smiling briefly, glancing down the table as everyone took a seat, whether they had food or not and bowed their heads while Eric said the blessing. Ryder opened one eye, finding that Frankie had one eye open and was watching him. He smiled, reaching beneath the tablecloth to squeeze her hand. "Thank you," he whispered.

Frankie waited a beat and smiled back, but it didn't meet her eyes. Her voice trembled slightly. "You're welcome."


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:**Thanks for the reviews! I'm trying to keep up with this fic as much as the other one. Enjoy :)

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**Chapter 11**

It was right after dinner, everyone was cleaning up, which meant…Frankie ducked out of the kitchen just as Tyra and Mindy began rounding up everyone to help with the dishes, slipping by Gracie, who looked like she was sleep-walking to the couch and jogged up the stairs. She knew he'd be up here, she thought, peeking through an open doorway. And lo and behold, he was, hiding from the cleanup. "Hey Daddy." Frankie leaned on the doorframe of her parents' bedroom, her hands disappearing into the pockets of her army green jeans, her ankles crossed and the top of her trademark red Chuck Taylors digging into the hardwood floor. She nibbled her lower lip. "Got a sec?"

"Anything to keep me from cleaning up." Tim shrugged, gesturing to the bed. He fell backwards onto it, his arms outstretched. "What's up? I drank too much." Most people say that they ate too much on Thanksgiving, but my dad drinks too much, Frankie thought, walking into the room and closing the door, snapping her fingers and crashing down onto the edge of the bed. He looked up at her, blowing out a hard breath. "You okay kid?"

"Fine, I just…" Frankie stewed on what Ryder had told her earlier. It was pretty intense stuff. She was sure that if she had looked him up like she'd wanted when she first met him, she would have found all that stuff he'd said, but…it wouldn't have had the same context it did coming from him. What really made her curious about it, was how he said it was everyone's fault, but he seemed to act like it was all his fault. He earned a medal, but he acted like it was a trinket. It was all a big contradiction. She took a deep breath and let it out in one puff. "Ryder told me why he's back in Texas."

"Yeah, it's pretty intense shit." Tim sat up, sitting beside her on the edge of the bed. He turned around, frowning slightly at the ruffled pillows and the steel blue quilt. "Your mother girled up my house."

It made her smile that he still acted like he had a choice in the matter; it had become a long-running gag since they remarried. "You like it," she murmured. She nudged his shoulder with hers. Her voice dropped; now was the time to talk about what she wanted to talk to him about. When he was a little sleepy from turkey and booze and before he got his second-wind to play football later. "How…how is Mom?"

A strange look crossed his face; Frankie knew her father better than almost anyone, except perhaps her mother and Uncle Billy. She didn't know that one. It looked…guilty, mixed with sadness and a bit of fear. If someone could be feeling all those things at once, she thought, frowning. She stayed silent; he'd speak when he wanted. Tim shook his head, waiting a few more minutes. He finally took a deep breath and looked down at his hands, twisting his wedding ring around. "Your mom…made me promise…."

I know she made you promise something. Frankie wasn't an idiot. Lyla was too nonchalant when they spoke a couple days ago. Too matter-of-fact. Scared, yes. That was real. Frustrated about Tim, that was real too. But Frankie knew her father. He wouldn't be completely oblivious. He would be helpful, he would be strong, and he wouldn't know what to do about it at all, but he wouldn't be completely ignorant of the situation. Lyla was hiding something from her; she ahd been all day. Too smiley and happy and pretending like everything was absolutely perfect.

The biggest defense mechanism my mother exhibits, Frankie thought, reflecting back on when she was a teenager and Lyla refused to tell her about her divorce from Ethan or why or when or, well, anything. In the name of protecting her. It would make sense she was doing it again. "What did she make you promise?" Frankie whispered, steeling herself.

Tim shook his head, breathing hard. "I knew you'd figure it out," he whispered. He closed his eyes, chuckling. "What'd you wait for everyone to pass out before you talked to me?"

"Yes. Now tell me Daddy." Frankie turned her head slightly meeting her father's eyes. I did my research, she thought briefly. I'm not an idiot. I went back in and did my research, because I knew that Lyla was lying. "Mom isn't getting…" She took a deep breath, whispering. Keep calm. "Mom knows…she knows what kind of cancer it is. She said they didn't know, they'd cut it out of her and find out later, but they won't. They know and they're not going to cut it out of her if they didn't think it wasn't bad."

Tim reached up, raking his fingers through his hair. He folded his hands, like he was praying, beneath his lips, and his eyes closed. Maybe he was praying. He waited a moment and whispered, his voice cracking again. "Stage 2B."

That meant it was in the lymphnodes. Small, but…but large enough…not advanced, but it was still in the lymphnodes, she thought, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. It also…it also meant…Frankie glanced sideways again, her voice breaking. "Daddy she's not getting the lump removed, right?"

He shook his head fast and she saw him swallowing hard and his eyes shining. He looked back at her, whispering. "She wanted…she didn't want you to worry, she'd tell you after."

I love and yet I hate my mother so much, Frankie thought, closing her eyes tightly. She always tried to protect everyone. She took another breath, laughing quickly. Laughing was all she could do. "What do you…what was she…" She jumped up, yelling down at him. "Did she think I wouldn't notice when she came out of the hospital with no breasts!?"

This isn't fair to him, she thought, seeing her father's face twisted in agony. "You think I thougth it was a good idea to lie to my kids about this!" he shouted. He stood up quickly, walking to the door and closing it, turning around and shaking his head. "No, I didn't, but…but she's my wife, okay Frankie? It made…" he sighed, his voice soft. "Made sense."

"She'd convince you to cut your own throat if it had a good outcome," Frankie said, turning around and pushing her fingers through her hair. She dropped them to her sides, whispering. "She's gotta' have…have chemo or something?" Oh Jesus, she thought, closing her eyes and moaning in pain when he nodded. Ethan's grandmother went through chemo when she was still living with him. They had to visit her in the hospital. All Frankie could remember was an old woman, skin and bones, with a large scarf around her head, dwarfing her.

My mother cannot be like that, she thought, looking back at him. Tim fell down to the floor, his arms over his knees, defeated. Get up, she wanted to scream. Get up, you can't zone out. You just can't. He closed his eyes. "Frankie…I don't know what…" He grabbed at his hands, twisting at his wedding ring, like it was strangling him. Most people got visibly upset, they yelled and cried, but…it devastated her when her father got upset, because he was so quiet about it. So it was strange to her when he was beginning to show it by wringing his hands. His voice was soft and sad. "I can't lose her Frankie."

I know Daddy. She sat down beside him, wrapping her arms around him, her head going to his and whispering. "We'll be there for her. She's strong, she's a fighter…" What more can I say? I can't take care of my deaf brother and my father at the same time. I can't try to clean up my mess of a life if I'm trying to save someone else's! She let go of him and wrapped her arms around herself, whispering. "She's fine, she'll be fine." Tim reached back with his hand, idly patting her cheek, but he was just staring ahead, numb.

You cannot tune out, she thought, lifting her head up slightly. Her voice was quiet, but firm, warning him. "You can't tune out Daddy. Not like before." It was his nature, but he couldn't be like before. When Lyla had gotten pregnant again, when she was in the hospital the first time, he'd tuned out. Gone blank, pretended no one existed, and kind of locked himself away in his head. Sometimes he didn't even go to see her in the hospital for days. "You can't do that," she repeated, glaring at him. "You have TJ. I know it's an easy thing to do Dad. To go somewhere else in your head and not have it be a problem, but you cannot go away. You have to be there for him and for mom because she has put up with you for the last…millennium or whatever and you cannot do that. I can't do this all by myself."

He blinked, shaking his head slightly. "I won't," he whispered.

"Good. You have TJ and…and Mom will be okay." I know that one day I will have to come to terms with the fact that it might not be okay, but that's for tomorrow. Frankie reached over, hugging her father. "I love you Daddy, but you're the adult."

"So are you kid," he murmured. He pulled back, smiling slightly. He reached his hand up, brushing her dark hair from her face. He cocked his head slightly, smiling quickly. "You know…" His voice was soft and reflective. He sighed. "You know…you're an adult and you…I know that I haven't…" He sighed hard, his eyes closing briefly. It's okay Daddy, she thought, watching him as he continued, fighting with his words. "Maybe sometimes might not be like I am okay….with…with problems, but you're the adult Frankie. You need to worry about your life. Okay?"

I know. My life is a mess. But this was not…my life can wait, she thought, disagreeing with his line of thought. Frankie shook her head, reaching for him again, whispering. "Daddy I'm not going away or anything."

"Oh I know," Tim laughed. He sighed again, sad. "But we're gonna' be fine kid. Your mom is going to be fine." You have to think of the alternative though Daddy, Frankie thought. He didn't seem to be getting that. Maybe he never would, so she hoped for his sake that he never had to. He reached his hand back up, twirling a lock of hair around his finger. He smiled. "You have red hair. Always wondered who in the family had red hair."

Some grandmother, somewhere, she thought. "Mom said it was just a visible expression of my personality," she said, smiling. It had been horrible when she was little, with carrot-top hair that tended to be more frizzy than curly. It eventually darkened, to a deep auburn, and the curls grew sleeker. I blossomed, she thought with a slight eyeroll. Gawky teenager one moment and…gawky adult the next. She reached for her father, who was still smiling at her, like he was seeing her for the first time. "I love you," she whispered. You were my best friend, sad as that was, before Noah came along. In some ways her father was still her best friend.

He squeezed her tight, kissing her cheek. "I love you too." He pulled back slightly, smiling, a little lopsided. "You know…when you were born, I was so freaked out." He shrugged. "Dunno why." He quirked his lip up, staring off at the other side of the room, whispering. "You're totally normal."

I take offense at that, she thought, smiling; she knocked her head against his. "You did okay Daddy." She grinned. "Only screwed me up a little bit."

"That was your mother." They both laughed, but his tapered off rather quickly as he sobered up. He squeezed her hand, whispering. "Not to get weird and shit, but you know I've had a lot…" And you get a little talky when you've had a few too many, she thought, rolling her eyes upward. Tim smiled. "You're the best thing I've ever done Frankie." He swallowed hard, whispering. "You and TJ are the best things that I have ever done in my entire life."

I know, she thought, nodding and reaching over again to hug him. She rested her chin on his shoulder, whispering. "You did something else right too Daddy."

He cocked his head, looking up at her as she stood up, straightening her shirt and moving to the door. She glanced over her shoulder, down at him, and quirked her lip at his confused expression. "You got Mom." And you'll keep her. He smiled, his eyes lighting up, like he just realized it. She opened the door, leaving her father to his thoughts, and went down the stairs, spying Ryder in the guest room checking messages on his phone. "Who is calling you? Don't they know you belong to us today?" she teased. It felt good to tease, after the emotional few minutes upstairs. She still felt kind of sick to her stomach.

Mom had breast cancer. Full on diagnosed breast cancer. She was getting a mastectomy and chemotherapy or something and she didn't bother telling me. She tried to push it out of her mind, focusing on Ryder, who was turning off his phone. "Just checking messages from the station, I'm not on call but hey, I am the sheriff," he said, smiling. He glanced out the window into the front. "Um…is there seriously someone else coming today?"

"No. Why?" Frankie peered around him, staring as a cab drove off, the last person she expected to see standing in front of the front porch. Her eyes widened. "Noah," she breathed, pushing away from the window and by Ryder, rushing to the front door and opening it up, just as he lifted his knuckles to knock. She stood on the other side of the threshold, staring at him.

Looked the same as ever, she thought, wrinkling her nose when Noah stopped in front of her. Maybe his hair was darker. Just a little bit. She pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. "Are you dyeing your hair?" she demanded.

Noah closed his eyes, sighing. "I'm sorry."

Good. You better be sorry. "For dyeing your hair?" she asked. It was easier to play stupid, to be funny when he wanted to be serious. The other option was to get sappy and sentimental. That wasn't what she and Noah were about. She quirked her lip. "You probably sorry, it looks terrible."

He reached up, wrapping his arm around her neck and drawing her against his chest. She pressed her palm into his shoulder, smiling and turning her cheek up so he could kiss it. "I love you," he whispered, squeezing her tight. "And I'm sorry I didn't tell you…any of it."

Yeah, whatever, she thought, dropping a kiss to his lips. "I love you too. Come inside."

"Has your dad gotten his second wind? I still owe him for two years ago when he beat me at football."

"He's always going to beat you at football, just accept it and move on."

"He was never in the NFL," Noah protested, closing the door behind him. He paused behind her, his hands on her elbows. He nodded to Ryder, who stepped out from the guest bedroom. "Hey. You're new."

Oh shit, that's right, Ryder…Frankie glanced between Noah and Ryder. They were both sizing each other up. Noah was taller by about two inches, but Ryder had more muscle. She smiled quickly, gesturing between both of them. "Noah, this is Ryder Cafferty, he's…um, he's a friend and Ryder this is my Noah." She closed her eyes. Damnit Frankie! Why did you call him your Noah? Ryder arched an eyebrow. "Um…I mean, this is…" Shit. She blew a hard breath up, her bangs flying sideways. "This is Noah Street. He's a good friend and he's just gotten engaged." Which you very well know, she thought, scowling back at Ryder's deepening frown.; you're going to need Botox if you keep that up, she thought, leaning against the banister. Frankie glanced over as Tim rounded the corner from the kitchen. He pointed at Noah with a turkey drumstick. "Outside! I got my second wind."

"I will beat you this year old man!" Noah yelled, shrugging off his fancy suit jacket and rolling up the sleeves to his elbows. "Let's do this!"

"Fight!" Ryan yelled, waking up from his dead slumber, which got Billy up, which had Eric grumbling about how come they couldn't just watch football like normal people did on Thanksgiving.

Ryder smiled tightly. "So that's Noah."

"Noah, who just got engaged, and who I got in a fight with a couple days ago. I didn't know he was going to show up," she explained. I don't have to explain. He's my friend. Nothing more. You know that. She smirked at his scowl. "You know you look cute when you do that." Almost makes me want to kiss you.

In fact, what the hell, she thought, gripping the front of his shirt and tugging him against her. She reached up, cupping the back of his head. He was a good kisser and she liked him, so what the…oh my, she thought, feeling him lift her up a little off the ground. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, her body suddenly feverish. Shit, she thought. I do not need this at all. This is so not what I need right now.

Hell, I'm a Riggins, she thought briefly as he carried her to the guest room. We love distractions. Are practically born that way, looking somewhere else and pretending something isn't as bad as it seems. That dumbass naiveté has helped get us through a lot of shit in our lives.

"Hey, Frankie, when you're done making out with Ryder, we're all going to be outside and then we're having pie," Mindy called from the kitchen.

Shit. She broke away, holding his face in her hands. He seemed as surprised as her. "We're not done with this," she vowed. She lifted an eyebrow, pointing her index finger hard into his chest. "But not right now." Frankie stepped away from Ryder, who was now hiding a smile. She turned around, pointing at him again, scowling. "Oh and don't play the hurt little jealousy card with Noah. It's pathetic, beneath you, and if you even think I would do anything beyond hug him you are sadly mistaken. That's just nasty."

"Noted."

"Now come outside and watch my fifty-year old father beat up Noah Street."

"How do you know he's going to beat up Noah?" Ryder asked, walking outside with her. He stopped on the back porch, his eyebrows lifting to his hairline as her dad lifted up Noah and tossed him on the ground like he was a pillow. His whistled low. "Wow."

Frankie wrapped her hand around his neck, yanking him to her for a hard kiss. She pushed him away. "Don't mess with a Riggins." She pushed him back lightly, jumping off the porch and running over to her mother, who was laughing and standing with Mindy, Becky, Julie, and the rest of them. She reached over, whispering into her ear. "I know about the cancer. Everything. Don't get mad at Dad, but I love you. No matter what."

When she pulled back, she saw the terrified look in her mother's eyes. It was strange. Like an out of body experience. Lyla Garrity was never scared, she thought. And she…she looked old. Tired. It was like one look and that was all Frankie needed. She blinked through tears, reaching for her mother and hugging her tight. You'll be fine.

Lyla stroked her back, swallowing audibly and speaking, her voice creaking in her ear. "I'm sorry…I just…didn't want to…"

"You'll be fine." She pulled back slightly, so she could look at her father, who was now battling his brother out, while Eric yelled that he had to work on his form if he wanted to ever be taken seriously as a geriatric football player. Tim straightened up, laughing at something Billy said to him and turned, meeting their gaze. He mouthed 'love you' to Lyla, who just smiled, lifting her hand in a tiny wave. The pause cost him, as Billy, Ryan, and Noah all plowed into him, knocking him to the ground.

"He'll pay for that later," Lyla teased. She cocked her head, smiling wide. Still tired, but…peaceful, Frankie thought. "I love you Frankie." She arched an eyebrow, whispering. "You should go to your soldier. He looks ready to eat you up."

"Mom!" Frankie looked over at Ryder, who was talking to Matt, deep in conversation. She smiled, glancing down at her toes, wrinkling them in her Chucks. Yeah. Eat her up. Sure. Not yet. She sighed, glancing at her mother again, whispering. "I'm going to take this slow. Unlike most things in my life."

"Good idea."

After the surgery, Frankie thought, hugging her mother again. She'd revisit her…whatever with Ryder after Lyla's surgery. Noah called out to her that she had to come back him up like the last few years. Noah. It was good to not…not be annoyed or angry at him. That was one thing resolved. She took a deep breath, whispering to herself. "One problem down, a million more to go."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:**Sorry this fic's been lacking. I usually have a few chapters already written before I post, but I got delayed by my other in-progress fic. I'm back now, so hopefully this one will be more up-to-date. The next three chapters are written, so again, hopefully it should be more up to date :)

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**Chapter 12**

"Sheriff you're requested…"

"Get Miller to do it," Ryder said into his radio, turning the dial down to an almost nonexistent volume and placing it on his hip, walking down the hospital hallway. He stopped at a directory, glancing at the arrows going every which way. "Um…" He turned on his heel, snagging a passing nurse. "Excuse me, hi, um, which way is…" He had no idea where Lyla would be. "Ah…someone who is getting surgery done."

"It is outpatient?" the nurse asked.

He had no idea. Would you go home after Lyla's surgery? Probably not. "No," he decided to say. He could always call Frankie again, but he'd been trying to call her all morning and she wasn't picking up her phone. The nurse directed him down another corridor and across a bridge to the surgery center. It took a few more minutes, but he found the Riggins clan sitting in the waiting area, along with Buddy and a guy that looked like a younger version of him. Probably Lyla's brother, he thought, walking over and spying Frankie. Her back was to him and she was moving her hand furiously over something in her lap, bent over it intently. Her hair was falling out of a knot on the top of her head and her face, from his side view angle, was determined.

Very carefully, he set his palm on her shoulder, so as not to really startle her. She jumped slightly, looking up from what Ryder could now see was her sketchbook. Ink covered her hands and she had a heavy ink pen in her left hand. "Oh, hey," she whispered, blinking at him and focusing. She cleared her throat, gesturing to a set of double doors, guarded by a hospital worker. "They said it shouldn't be too long. The doctor will come out and let us know how it went and all." Frankie looked across the waiting room to a set of windows, where her dad was standing, talking with a guy in a wheelchair. "Dad's…" She didn't finish her thought, turning back to her sketchbook.

Ryder squinted, trying to see if he recognized the guy in the wheelchair, but he didn't. "Who is that?"

"Who is what?"

"The guy in the wheelchair with your dad."

"My mother's other husband," Frankie said, yawning. She folded up her sketchbook and slipped the pen in with about a dozen more in a dirty and tattered leather pouch. Once those were in her bag, she reached for her phone, turning it on, frowning slightly. "You called me 20 times." She looked up, smiling. "You like me."

Shut it. "I was just checking on you. What do you mean husband?" I still don't understand some of this talk, he thought, as Frankie stood up, slinging her bag over her shoulder, where it beat against her hip. It wouldn't surprise him at all if there was a second husband somewhere in the mix. The Riggins family was weird. Speaking of Riggins family…he glanced around for TJ, who was nowhere to be found. "Is TJ at school?"

She nodded. "Dad didn't want to upset him, he just said that Mom went away for a few days and when she was coming back home she'd need it to be quiet and would have to rest," Frankie drawled, looking over at her grandfather, who was sitting silently across from her. Anyone who knew Buddy Garrity should have taken that as a sign that he was upset about something. "Hey, Grandpa? I'm going to go out for some air with Ryder, okay? Call me if…"

Buddy gave no notice that he heard her, staring off into space. "Will do," the other guy beside Buddy said, smiling. "I'll call you."

Frankie smiled quickly, her smile not meeting her eyes. "Thanks Uncle Bud," she whispered. She walked around the line of chairs, standing close to him. She nodded to the guy in the wheelchair, her voice soft as they approached them. "That's Noah's dad, Jason Street. He's my dad's best friend and kind of like…I don't know, I always wondered if they lived in a constant threesome as teenagers." What the hell, Ryder thought, frowning at her. That was a stranger statement to make than calling him a second husband. He stopped beside Tim. Frankie reached over, lightly touching his elbow. "Daddy, we're going to get some air. Call me, please, if there's anything."

Tim nodded, but Ryder thought he looked…foggy. He seemed distracted and kind of numb. Kind of like Frankie had been a moment before. "Yeah," he sighed, focusing a little on Frankie. His eyes were kind of cloudy. His voice fell off. "Sure…okay." He took a deep breath and crossed his arms, turning to him. He frowned slightly, like he was seeing him for the first time. "Ryder. Hello."

"Hey Tim." Ryder glanced at the guy in the wheelchair, who was studying him. Now he could see it. Noah looked like him. He offered is hand. "Ryder Cafferty."

"Luke and Becky's son," Jason said, smiling fast, reaching up his right hand, which Ryder noticed was slightly less cramped looking than his left, which was sitting in his lap, kind of limp. "Nice to meet you. Jason Street."

Frankie pulled on the bottom of his jacket. "Let's go. Daddy, please," she almost begged, her eyes wide and focused on him. "Call me."

"Yeah," Tim sighed again, turning back to look out the window. Jason frowned, concerned, and pushed his chair a little closer to Tim. Ryder turned away, walking with Frankie down another corridor and out of the hospital. He stopped, scowling when he realized he'd been right there all along, but he'd taken a wrong turn when he'd gone inside. Damn.

He walked with her to his sheriff's car, which was parked awkwardly at the front of the hospital. "You totally double parked and you're not on official business, but you're still blocking the lane," Frankie said.

"I wanted to see you."

"And you broke a rule!" Frankie flashed a smile, throwing her bag into the car before sliding into the front seat. She leaned against the middle console, reaching to his computer. "What's this thing do?"

"Don't touch."

"I don't do well when people tell me not to do things." Her phone went off and she took a glance, ignored the call, and continued. Her voice seemed faster, more strained. "So where are you going to take me, huh? I just needed to get out of there, it was so cold, why are hospitals cold? Mom told me once it's because they keep the temperature down so bacteria doesn't spread, but personally I think it's because of all the dead people in hospitals and once you die in a hospital, they don't want the alive people to smell you…"

Oh my God, would you shut up? Ryder closed his eyes briefly; that wasn't appropriate Ryder, he thought to himself. She's freaking out. She's panicking, he suddenly realized, when Frankie took a few shallow breaths, but which sounded more like hiccups. Shit. He reached over and held the back of her head in one hand and pinched her nose. "Breathe through your mouth, very slow," he urged, mimicking what she had to do. He breathed through pursed lips, nodding as she began to calm. "Good," he murmured, letting go of her nose and stroking the back of her head. He leaned over, kissing her temple. She seemed better, but very cold. "Let's get you warmed up, you're freezing." He turned to the steering wheel and put the car into gear, driving towards a coffee shop around the block.

They went inside and he got his standard red-eye while she ordered some sort of latte with a thousand different types of flavored syrup. She warmed her hands around it, whispering. "I'm freezing."

You're on adrenaline right now; I've been there. "Did you get any sleep last night?" Dark circles ringed her eyes and he noticed that her dark red hair seemed rather limp, hanging from its knot. He sat down in a booth and she dropped into a chair across from him, dropping her bag to the floor. Ryder wrapped his hands around his warm cup of coffee, peering at her.

She shook her head, opening up the top of the cup and reached on the table beside them for a shaker of chocolate powder, tapping the bottom to dump some over the whipped cream on top. You're going to get diabetes if you eat like that all the time, he thought, frowning slightly. Frankie tucked her hair behind her ears, reaching for the cup and whispering. "I was up with Mom all night. She was scared, she…she's going to have to have chemotherapy, starting in a few weeks, once she's kind of recovered from the surgery…I guess, I don't know, she isn't even sure." She looked up, whispering, her eyes dull. "Christmas is going to really suck this year."

It might not be so bad; they've made a ton of advancements…he didn't know though, what those advancements were. There was a lot to manage the side effects, he knew. Some new pill so she wouldn't lose her hair, at least, he remembered reading about that some time ago. But that wasn't something to bring up; he had to keep her mind off of her mother, which he knew was going to be difficult. He cleared his throat, speaking softly. "So you know what I did this morning?"

"What?"

"Got a phone call from a concerned neighbor about sounds coming from Ryan's garage."

"Oh shit," Frankie sighed. She closed her eyes, hanging her head in her hand. "What did my cousin do? Did he have a cow in there this time? Horse? Chickens? Last time sounds were coming from his garage it turned out he was building a wind turbine for some rich guy in Dallas."

"Wind turbine?" That was a new one. He'd gone to investigate neighbor claims once and found that Ryan had a brewery going in his shed. He was actually a smart guy, Ryder just didn't know why he didn't bother doing anything with those smarts, unlike his twin brother. Ryder shook his head, bringing himself back to the story he planned to tell her. "No, it was actually what sounded like a racecar engine, so I show up and he opens up the door and sure enough…" He smiled. "He's got a Formula 1 racecar in his garage."

Frankie blinked. "Did he steal it?"

"No, believe it or not, I talked to the guy he put me in touch with at McLaren and he actually is doing some sort of modifications on it. Part of an audition process or something. I guess he knows some people and he's been working on making their cars lighter." Ryan Riggins might actually have a skill that he was going to make money on. Legally. Amazing.

It seemed to baffle Frankie. She shook her head and whistled low. "Wow. Never thought he'd do something that was actually…wow." She sipped her coffee for a few minutes, looking around and taking in the coffee shop. It was nice and quiet, so he enjoyed it here. She pursed her lips at the little stage in the corner. "They have live music nights?"

"Live music, poetry reading stuff, whatever."

"Cool. I like places like that." She cocked her head, smiling at his frown. "I got my start in a place like this, in Los Angeles. Record producer was in the audience scouting for talent and Penny and I waited tables for time on the stage."

She never spoke about her band. Just let it all kind of exist in an alternate universe from Dillon. Ryder could have Googled her again, spent more time studying how she started, but…he wanted to hear it from her, he thought, smiling a little. "So how did that even start? You in music?"

"I went to an art high school," Frankie answered. She quirked her lip, tapping her finger to her temple again. Her voice was dull; he didn't expect that to change, especially if she was very tired. All he wanted was her mind off of Lyla, as best as it could be. "2400 on my SATs, identic memory, and my mother about had a heart attack when I wanted to go study with Matt in Chicago when I was fourteen." She quirked her lip up again; a half-smile. She sipped her coffee, waiting a moment and smiled again. "Mom was always supportive of me, even if I know she would have preferred I go to Harvard and actually have a legitmate career to fall back on if the art and music thing didn't work."

He squinted. "You don't have a degree?" Somehow he couldn't believe that; Frankie was probably one of the smartest people he'd met.

She shook her head, quirking her lip up in a smirk. "My dad barely got his Associate's, but he makes more money than my Aunt Tyra with her Master's and Bachelor's," Frankie said. She shrugged. "Sometimes it doesn't mean anything and sometimes it really does. Depends what you want to do and your opportunities. I wanted to paint, but I also wanted to sing. I love both and…and when I set my mind to something, I get it." Her smile broadened a bit on her face, crinkling up the corners of her eyes. "I started when I was sixteen, singing for my supper, I guess. Picked up the band along the way and by the time I was twenty-one, I had the band, a record deal, and at the end of the year, a number one single and a Grammy nomination."

"You opened for some big names," Ryder said. Which he only knew from searching her name online. He cocked his head, smiling. "You sang with Elton John."

Her eyes lit up in memory. "That was out of this world. The guy is like 100 but he can sure sing," Frankie sighed, her look faraway. She twirled her cup around on the table, lifting it up for another sip. They stopped talking, sitting in comfortable silence. She twisted her fingers around on the table, her voice soft. "I think that I'm done with music."

Whoa. What? That was a bold statement to make. Ryder shook his head. "Don't make a decision now Francesca."

"Why do you call me that?"

He looked up from his coffee again. She was staring at him, but she didn't seem angry about anything. Just…curious. Which Ryder was learning was often her default mode. She must have been a handful as a kid, probably one of those ones that always asked why and never took an answer for what it was worth. "Why do I call you Francesca? It's your name."

"Yeah, but only my mom calls me Francesca most of the time and my dad when I'm in deep trouble," she said; she smiled, her eyes crinkling again. She shrugged a shoulder and whispered. "I don't dislike it, but…everyone calls me Frankie but you and it wasn't like I told you not to do it."

Even if you told me not to call you Francesca, I'd still call you Francesca. Ryder shrugged, twirling his coffee cup around. He lifted it up and sipped; it was growing cold. He'd have to get a refill before they headed back to the hospital. "Frankie is a boy's name and you're…" He looked her up and down, maybe not in the casual way he intended. His voice dropped, slightly husky. "Anything but a boy."

Frankie kept her gaze on his for a long minute. She finally broke away, reaching down into her sketchbook and flicked up the cover. It wasn't like a normal sketchbook, Ryder thought, leaning back and watching as she turned pages, some loose and some attached to the thick leather binding. "I don't know about music," she continued, as though he hadn't said anything about her name. "I mean…I love it so much, but I don't want to do the single artist breaking from the band thing. After Isaac…" She sighed hard and flicked through more pages. "After Isaac, I just lost my taste. Felt like I had to prove myself. I don't like that. I don't have to prove my music to anyone. I'll finish this last album, because I have a contract, but it's just one album. Then it's over and…and they'll be okay. It's just not the same."

You like art more anyway, Ryder thought, taking one of the tissue thin pages and turning it towards him. It was in that heavy ink she'd been sketching in back at the hospital. It was her mother, turning to look over her shoulder. "Is this fro memory?" he asked, looking up again.

She nodded idly, turning another page; he picked that one up before it almost fell to the floor. It was a heavier paper and charcoal, of her father, looking surly and angry. "That's from memory," she said, before he could ask. "When I was a kid. It's the angriest he's been at me." Looks like it, he thought, shaking his head and picking up another. It was a series of hand sketches. She waved her left hand, before he could ask once more; she was starting to read his mind, it was creepy. "Matt told me that was an exercise, just…like a drill almost. Draw hands. Draw hands to loosen the kinks in yours, he used to say."

Frankie finally removed a paper, turning it around to him, and propped her head up on her hand. "I did this from what I thought it might look like. Am I close at all?"

Ryder took the page, staring at the ink version of himself, standing in front of a helicopter. She had the chopper right, he thought, setting it down on the table. He wouldn't get angry at her; that wasn't fair, especially given that she was in a vulnerable place right now. "Frankie," he sighed. He tossed it back to her. "Why are you drawing me with a helicopter?"

"Because your mother told me at Thanksgiving that your'e lying about your knee."

"My mother is crazy," Ryder said. He arched an eyebrow at her frown. "Did she tell you that? She's...she's incredibly…selective about what wants to hear and what she doesn't. To this day she doesn't want to hear that I can't fly."

"Do you?"

What? He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Do you want to fly again?"

"Of course," he blurted out. If he could fly again, he would in a heartbeat. He wouldn't have left the Army. He'd have stayed and he'd be flying training drills or he'd be back overseas again. Not sitting in…he set his jaw. It was a catch 22. He wouldn't be sitting in a coffee shop in Dillon, Texas with Frankie Riggins. He stood up from the table, while Frankie shoved all her sketches back in the book. "I'll take you back to the hospital."

Frankie shook her head, whispering and looking up at him. "You don't have to stay."

Yes, I kind of do, he thought, his hand lightly pressing her towards the front door. They left, throwing away their empty coffee mugs. He slipped his sunglasses on, walking over to his car. "I'd fly again Frankie, but I can't."

"I'd keep up with music, but I don't want to," she retorted.

Whatever. He climbed into the car and they drove in silence back to the hospital. Ryder followed her into the hospital and stopped before they rejoined her family. She seemed nervous, her brow wrinkled and her eyes wide. "It'll be fine," he murmured; that was a lie.

"Don't say that."

"Okay." He sighed, whispering. "Frankie I'm here. I've spent a lot of time on both sides of this situation. In that operating room and waiting on someone I love. I'm here."

Frankie tugged on the strap of her bag, her voice choking in her throat. "You don't have to stay the rest of the day." She looked up at him, shaking her head. "Don't worry about it. Go back to work." She seemed to compose herself right before his eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging quickly. She kissed his cheek and let go, walking back to join her family, sitting down beside her father and next to her Aunt Mindy.

Okay, Ryder thought, hesitating. He did have to get back to work. He sighed and turned around; she'd be fine, he thought, walking back out to his car. He climbed back inside and picked up his radio, calling back into the office that he'd be there in about ten minutes.

That night, with no phone call from Frankie, he was preparing to go over to the house, since she wasn't answering her phone, when his doorbell rang, just as he was reaching for the keys to his personal truck. Ryder walked over and pulled it open, revealing Frankie standing on the other side.

She'd changed out of her jeans and t-shirt from this morning, into what looked like a pair of paint-spattered overalls and a long-sleeve white shirt, stained with more paint. Tears streaked down her cheeks and her hair was falling over her shoulders. "She's okay," she whispered. Her shoulders were beginning to tremble. Frankie swallowed hard, her throat constricting and she tried to smile, but her lips merely twisted into a vague resemblance of a smile.

Ryder stepped aside to let her into the house. "She's okay?" he asked.

"She's sleeping now, they're going to keep her for a couple days to make sure that everything is…is draining and whatever," Frankie said. She licked her lips and pushed her hand into her chest. "She's so small Ryder. I didn't realize she was so…so little."

Everyone looks little in those drab hospital beds. He reached to rub at her arm, pausing; she was freezing cold again and shaking, but she didn't notice, her face lifted up to the ceiling. She took another breath, but it released shakier than the one before. You're going to collapse again. "She's okay," Frankie repeated. She sighed hard, gasping and pushing at her chest with the heel of her hand. "She's okay."

Now it's over, Ryder thought, his arms around her as she released a sob, falling against him. He squeezed her hard, whispering. "You're okay." Now it's about you Frankie. For once its about you.

Until she was reaching for him. No, no, no, he thought, trying to break the kiss she'd pulled him into. Not right now. He managed to tear his lips from hers, feeling her tears on his face. "Francesca," he whispered, shaking his head and reaching for her hands, which were pressed to his neck. "Frankie we can't."

"We're both adults," she said, her face suddenly dry and sober. She swallowed hard. "Why can't we do this? I want to do this. Please." No, he thought, feeling her pull him towards her again. I'm an idiot. A weak, immoral idiot, he thought, as she knocked him towards the stairs. Frankie broke away again, her voice calm. "I just…I need to feel alive Ryder. Don't push me away."

Alive. He knew what that was like. "You're going to regret it," he whispered.

She smiled, shaking her head. "You don't know me Ryder. I don't regret anything." Frankie cocked her head, her voice soft again. "I know it doesn't seem right, right now. Maybe it isn't, but I don't want to think. I'm tired of overthinking and I just want you. My mother could die. She could live. Right now she's living and right now I want to live too."

Live, he thought, taking a step back on the stairs. Frankie followed one step forward. You make a good point, he thought, as she threw herself back at him. Damnit. "No regrets, huh?" he mumbled, as they fell back against the wall of the stairwell. He wrapped his arms back around her, lifting her up into them.

Frankie nodded, brushing her lips against his again. "No regrets."

We'll see about that, Ryder thought, ignoring his conscience and carrying her upstairs.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Where am I? Frankie sat up quickly, in the familiar, yet unfamiliar room. She squinted, looking at a framed print across the room of a helicopter, but it was in crazy colors. Like Andy Warhol. Weird. Cool, but weird. She didn't recognize it. She leaned back on her elbows and glanced sideways. Oh, hello Ryder.

Now I know where I am, she realized, climbing out of the bed and reached down for his shirt, tugging on the t-shirt that said ARMY on it in block letters. She crawled back onto the bed and over him, pushing her hand on his back for leverage as she slipped to the other side. He grunted, burrowing deeper under his pillow. "This place is very bachelor-esque," she said, noting the plaid sheets and mattress. "Very dark." Lots of navy and forest green.

"Shut up," Ryder mumbled from beneath the pillow, his voice hoarse. Someone's not a morning person, she thought. She pushed at his pillow and he grabbed it, shoving it back over his face. "Stop it."

I can't sleep now. I'm awake. What can I find around here, she wondered, turning on her heel. She smirked at him; of all people she thought he'd be awake when someone else was awake, but he'd gone back to sleep. She turned back around and pulled open a drawer to his dresser, peering inside. No skeletons there. She opened up the closet. Everything was hung neatly and was pressed and folded perfectly. It was even color-coded. Of course it was. As was most everything in the dresser. Westpoint thing, she figured. Probably was just habit now.

Until she pulled open another closet door. "Oh my God." This must be what the inside of his head looks like, she thought, narrowing her eyes and trying to rationalize why he had a closet that was crammed with…junk. She reached in and removed a hockey stick. "You play hockey?" His breathing wasn't even and she was making too much noise. There was no way he was asleep.

"What?" He sat up, rolling over slightly and blinking. His hair was sticking up adorably. He shook his head, whispering. "What are you doing? Stop snooping and come back to bed."

I like snooping; plus I'm awake. Frankie wasn't sure why she got up, but she was wide awake and there was no way she was going to go back to bed yet. She closed the door, still holding the hockey stick. "You want to play?" she asked, tossing it up in the air and twisting it in her hands. "You got skates? I'm sure we could find ice somewhere."

He ignored her, lifting the covers up over his shoulders and head. So you're not a morning person, Frankie deduced; weird, because you are former military. Shouldn't you snap to the moment you're awake or something? She dropped the hockey stick on the floor and opened up one of his drawers again, rummaging in for anything interesting. Her hand closed around a box. She glanced over her shoulder. Huh. Frankie pushed it open and gasped. His medal.

Before she had a chance to study it and the narrative on the other side of the box, a hand reached over her shoulder, and she jumped in surprise, Ryder snapping the lid shut over the medal. "Put that away," he snapped. He shoved the box into the sock drawer again. He slammed it shut, glaring angrily at her. "Stop snooping."

Frankie scowled, crossing her arms over her chest. "Why are you hiding it?"

"I'm not hiding it."

"It's in your sock drawer! That's like the definition of hiding something!"

"It doesn't matter! Why are you awake? It's three in the morning!"

That explains it then, she thought, walking around him and down the stairs, shrugging her shoulders and speaking, her voice quiet in the empty house. "I always wake up early to paint. Then I go back to sleep. My mind is clearer." Right now her mind was fuzzy. It didn't seem to make sense to her. All she'd wanted after leaving the hospital was to find Ryder. She'd gone back to Matt's and changed out of the clothes she'd spent all day in, putting on her painting outfit because…because she wanted to express herself. She wanted to get out her anger.

My mother is lying in a bed, cut up and weak because…because she didn't know why. It didn't make sense to her. Things usually made sense to her. Or at least, she tried to rationalize them away to make sense. Because she tended to ignore what she didn't want to see, most everything, in the end, made sense. Except this. There was no way she could rationalize it. All she could do was try to paint, until she'd turned to a sobbing mess on the floor, covered in paint. She reached up to her hair, twirling a lock around her finger; there were still dried paint flecks throughout it. Frankie dropped her hand to her side, turning around in the living room of Ryder's house. He stood on the stairs, studying her.

What, she wanted to scream. "I'm fine," she said.

Ryder shrugged, his voice soft. The British accent came across stronger when he was quieter. He sounded a hell of a lot like a Texan when he got angry. "I didn't ask if you were fine." He dropped his chin a little, his eyes narrowing and studying her. "But…since we're on that topic…are you fine?"

"Yes!" No, I'm not fine. Frankie turned in a circle. She wanted to hit something. She wanted to cry. She wanted to laugh. There was too much going on in her mind. Before he could ask, because she could sense it on the tip of his tongue, she spun on her foot and jabbed her finger at him in the air. "Do not say I regret this because I don't! I don't regret this!" She pushed her fingers through her hair, letting them form fists at her sides. "Augh!" she screamed, stomping her foot. "I hate the world right now!"

He dropped down to the bottom step, leaning against the banister. "Why?"

"Why? Why not!" she shouted, starting to pace. She threw her hands in the air, laughing hysterically. "Guess what I did after we got home? Guess! You won't guess." No one will guess. She laughed again, but it became more of a giggle, bubbling up in her throat. "I drugged my dad."

That was clearly not what he was expecting and his eyebrows almost jumped clear off his forehead. "You…you drugged your dad?" He frowned, shaking his head. "What…what does that mean?"

It means exactly what it means. "Jason told me to just let him go to sleep, to just let him do this thing, but I didn't…didn't want…" Frankie released a long breath, her hands going to her hips and leaning over, almost touching her forehead to the floor. She straightened back up, blowing out her breath again between pursed lips, and closing her eyes. Like she was stretching after a long run. That's what it felt like. She fell back into the armchair, sitting back and drawing her legs up. She kept her eyes closed. It felt easier to admit it. "I…I gave him a beer. He wanted a beer, so I gave him a beer and I happened to crush up…crush some sleeping pills."

Ryder walked over, sitting across from her on the couch. He leaned over his knees, his fingers folding together. "Probably not a good idea. You're not supposed to mix the two."

"The amount of alcohol my father can consume, one beer and some sleeping pills won't keep him down for long, but…it felt good." That's probably what scared her the most. It felt good, to watch as he completely passed out. Oblivious. He'd sleep like a rock. No thoughts. "I didn't want him to think about it," she murmured. She shook her head again. "He was…he saw TJ, who was sleeping…we waited until Mom got up and was walking a little…she was good, but…but she was so tired and weak."

I don't think it's hit her yet, she thought, but she didn't say that. Lyla was awake; they got her out of the bed after they moved her to her room. The nurses wanted her to start working the anesthesia out of her system, so they'd helped her walk around the room and it had been Tim's idea, believe it or not, to keep her from the mirrors. They just didn't want her to upset herself somehow by seeing her scars and stitches. Probably should have hidden Tim's gaze, Frankie had thought. "Everyone gives him a bad rap sometimes," she murmured, dropping her hand from her temple to her knee, glancing at Ryder, who was still watching her. She shrugged and whispered. "He's probably stronger than anyone I've met except my mother. He's going to be okay, but…he can only handle so much at once and unlike most people he knows it. Seeing her there…I can't believe he…" She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, hitting her head back against the chair. "He did better than I thought today. I think because Jason was there and me…and Billy, but…he kind of lost it when he saw TJ. Only thing I could think was to…knock him out or something."

Ryder smiled quickly. He took a deep breath and shrugged. "You gotta' do what you gotta' do sometimes." He smiled a little. "I was in the Army, Frankie. I saw…a lot of stuff. You have to do it sometimes. I did it to my mom once."

She looked up, smiling slightly. "You drugged your mother?"

He nodded, looking down at his knee. He rubbed at it; the flannel pants he'd tugged on obscured the scars. "Yeah…not proud of it, but…it was my idea and my dad did it. Only way to get her to sleep. I think she would have stayed awake for about a month straight." He shrugged. "As it were…she'd been awake for over 72 hours. Probably working on three hours sleep and she was driving me insane. So I told my dad to just drug her or something. He gave her a sleeping pill and told her it was an aspirin. She almost killed him when she woke up, but she later admitted that she needed the sleep." He smiled. "Probably wouldn't have gotten it otherwise."

Be that as it may, when Tim Riggins woke up from his forced sleep, he would not be happy with her. He hated the feeling that sleeping pills gave him. Frankie was anticipating a fight. Well, a fight by Tim standards, which would entail a lot of glaring, maybe a couple of comments, and then he'd move on. She shook her hand through her hair, whispering. "I always wondered about them when I was a teenager…they were divorced and never saw each other…and then my mom got a divorce and she moved back to Texas and I was in Chicago and it was just inevitable. They're so opposite."

Ryder smiled again and reached over for her hand, squeezing it tight and resting it on the arm of the chair. "Sometimes opposites attract."

Sometimes they attract, but sometimes the craziness that happens between them is too much to handle, Frankie thought. She smiled again, turning her hand over in his. Everything was starting to go fuzzy again. I'm tired. "My dad will be fine. It's just the drama around him sometimes that drives you insane…my mom will be fine, but I just…" It was so hard. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She hiccupped. "Ryder she…she does so much and now this and…I just don't know anymore. I'm just so tired right now."

Somewhere in the house, before Ryder could say anything, her phone began to ring. Frankie recognized the tone. She jumped up from the chair and ran up the stairs, Ryder hot on her heels. It was three in the morning, she thought, her mind racing. She fell down on the floor, rummaging in the pocket of her overalls, removing the phone. "California," she murmured.

It wasn't the hospital. "Is it your mother?" Ryder asked, leaning over her shoulder. He picked up the phone, because she couldn't answer. California. That meant it was someone from the band. I can't do this, she thought, tossing the phone aside and getting up, crawling onto the bed. Over her shoulder, she heard Ryder answer. A moment passed and his voice lifted. Texan, she thought, smiling slightly; he was angry. "Excuse me? You want to talk to her about record deals and songs and deadlines? Here's your deadline, fuck off." He walked over to the window and opened it up, throwing the phone out.

Hey, that's practically my…Frankie sat up on her elbow. She squinted. The only people who bothered to call her on that thing were not the ones she wanted to speak with right now. She fell back down onto the bed. "Who was it?" she mumbled into the pillow.

"Your manager. He wants the songs now."

"Fuck off Glen," she mumbled into the pillow.

"That's exactly what I told him." Ryder sat up against the headboard, lifting the sheets and quilt over her shoulders. Thank you, she thought, but didn't say anything. He cleared his throat. "So…you should probably be there when your dad wakes up."

Are you kicking me out? Frankie rolled onto her side and peered up, her eyes narrowed. She sat up on her elbow, studying him. He didn't look angry or anything. Just…well just like Ryder usually looked. Slightly perturbed about everything. She pursed her lips. "You know," she said, tapping her knuckles on the bed. "I don't think I've been kicked out of bed before."

He whipped his head sideways. "Kick you out?"

"You want me to go? Just say go Ryder. Geez."

"I'm not kicking you out!"

Frankie threw the covers aside, climbing out of the bed and reached for her overalls. She stepped into them and turned around to face him. He was sitting up, looking confused. "You want me to go? Just say go, I can go. I mean…I just admitted to drugging my father who handles emotions like a four-year old does and my mother is in the hospital after having breast cancer surgery, and I'm kind of losing my mind…what?" He was smiling at her. She slammed her eyebrows together. What was so funny? "You're smiling at me."

"Because you fly off the handle so quickly," Ryder whispered. He smiled again, pushing the cover aside and gesturing for her to come back to her empty spot. "Get back in here."

"But you said…"

"I said you should be at your house when your father wakes up. Then you guys can explain to TJ what's happening, you can deal with any homicidal tendencies your dad might have towards you, and…" He leaned over to his alarm clock, hitting a button and turned it towards her. It was set for seven. "I'll take you back."

That was in four hours, Frankie thought, dropping the overalls back to the floor. She walked over to the bed and remained standing. "You…you're not kicking me out?" She guessed it was stupid to think he would anyway. Didn't seem like him. Except for maybe the fact that he was such a loner she was sure he kicked out every girl he had over. "You do this with all the girls?" she asked, climbing into the bed.

He shrugged, slouching down on the bed and propped his head up behind his hands. "No girl's ever been here."

Seriously? She squinted, turning her head towards him. She smirked, joking. "What are you a virgin?"

Ryder snorted. "Hardly." He smiled at her, his eyes sparkling. They were very dark, she thought, almost black. It contrasted sharply with his oak-colored blond hair. He rolled over onto his side and propped his head up, whispering. "I never bring women here. You're the first."

Color me special, she thought, lifting an eyebrow in surprise. Well then. She pursed her lips. That was…interesting. "Guess I'm lucky," she murmured. And something flipped inside her stomach at that admission. He'd let her know more and see more than she was sure he'd let anyone else. Even his best friends. Frankie rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling for a moment. It all seemed to be…collapsing, but there were a few things holding her up. Him being one of them.

My mother is my first priority. My father and my brother…I'll do the music stuff because I have to, but I don't care what Ryder told me this morning about not making big decisions right now. I'm done with it. Everything that happened in Los Angeles was not what she wanted in her life. It made her feel sick and upset and not…not herself. She sighed. I can't sleep. She glanced sideways at him; Ryder was staring at the ceiling too, and his hands folded on his stomach. "I can't sleep," she said.

"Well you have a lot on your mind right now."

She looked back up at the ceiling. The medal in his sock drawer. When he'd told her about it, he hadn't sounded…happy about it. It was something he should be proud of earning, but at the same time it came at great personal cost. "Why are you hiding your medal?" she murmured, turning over to face him. She folded her hands beneath her cheeks, whispering. "You shouldn't hide it."

Ryder folded his pillow in his arms, hugging it tight. "I'm not…" he sighed hard and closed his eyes. He waited a minute, before looking straight at her. "I told you. It's nothing…it's not something you put out there. You don't…don't glorify it."

"But you don't need to hide it," she murmured. Put it in a box or something. Put it away with the rest of your uniforms and other Army stuff. Just don't hide it away like you're ashamed to be alive because of it or something.

He propped his head up on his hand, frowning at her. What now, she wondered. We could spend the next several years psychoanalyzing each other. "Yeah," Ryder said. He arched an eyebrow and lifted the corner of his lip up as well, almost smirking, but it seemed softer than that, she thought, more like…like he was teasing her. "And you don't need hide all that stuff going on in your head right now."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about how you, Francesca, are finally letting yourself have something tonight." He sighed hard, whispering. "You just need to let yourself…maybe you finally are, but you just need to let yourself go for tonight. Your parents will be okay. You don't need to take on their problems as your own." He smiled again. "Just let go Frankie."

Let go? What was that supposed to mean? She swallowed hard, her throat tightening and forming a large lump. "I…" She swallowed again and whispered. "I'm here, aren't I?" I came here because I knew you'd let me just…just stop thinking. You'd take my mind off of my problems.

Ryder shook his head, whispering. "I'm not going to be your go to stress reliever Frankie."

"My mother has cancer," she said. What more did he want from her? She was losing her damn mind and yes, she came here to be with him to help take her mind off of things. She sat up in the bed, the covers pooling around her waist. She raked her hand through her hair, almost protesting. "Do you want me to be happy about it?"

"You're misunderstanding me."

"Then what am I not understanding? Sounds like you're telling me to just suck it up and deal. You'll hug me when I'm crying, but you're telling me to…"

"I'm not telling you anything." Ryder sat up, pushing his hands through his hair and closing his eyes, whispering. "I am just trying to tell you that you need to think about yourself for just a moment during this. You want to know why you came here tonight? You want to know why you broke down in the living room? Stop taking everyone else's problems as your own. Just let yourself…" He sighed and shook his head, whispering. "Just let yourself go."

I don't understand, she wanted to cry. She pushed her hands at her forehead, shaking her head. "I'm trying to help my family…"

"Then help them, but Frankie don't take on all their problems. You're not there to solve them all and they know it. Your mom knows it and your dad and even your little brother. You have to deal with your own for now."

But there are so many, she wanted to cry. She wiped at her eyes, dropping her hand to the mattress. Ryder took it and held it in his, rubbing it soothingly. There are so many and so many of them don't matter. I don't care about Los Angeles. Music is done. Professional music and I are over. Did I want that outcome? No. Was it the one to be made? Yes. She turned her head, looking at him; he was just watching her intently. Why do I feel like this around you, she wondered. Very…floopy.

Only person she'd ever felt this way, all jumbled and confused…that was Noah. Not even Isaac, who she had to admit she spent more time on than she should have and well, she'd learned her lesson there. Noah, my first love, she thought, swallowing hard. She didn't call Noah…oh my God, Frankie thought, sitting up straighter. I didn't call Noah…she glanced at Ryder, whispering. "You beat Noah."

He frowned, his eyes squinting. "Excuse me?"

"You…nevermind." She licked her lips, pushing her hand at her hair again and propped her elbow up on her knee, staring off at the foot of the bed. This is too confusing for me to deal with right now. I can only deal with one thing at once and right now…she glanced sideways at him again. "Me, huh?"

Ryder shrugged and whispered. "You, huh."

"What was I supposed to do in the hospital? Break down in my mother's room?" she whispered. She had had to wait. Wait until she got Dad home, until they had the final briefing from the surgeon, wait until they got her mother settled for the night…wait until she checked on TJ and sat down and took a break and focused on the next.

He shook his head. "No," he murmured. He took a deep breath, slowly releasing it from pursed lips. It was a tic she noticed he did, when he was getting a little stressed out. "No, but you're supposed to feel for yourself. Not someone else."

Frankie nodded, thinking for a few more minutes. She glanced at him again. "I have to go back to the house tomorrow to start setting up," she murmured, shaking her head at his look. "Ryder, this isn't about…about taking someone else's emotions. It's for me. To make me feel better. To check on my little brother, who doesn't know what's going on and to…to just take a second, okay?" She sighed hard. Now she was starting to realize what he meant by stress reliever. She squeezed his hand. Hard. "And you're not a stress reliever. Don't think of yourself like that."

He quirked his lip up. "Just making sure you know where I stand."

"As if you'd hide it from me."

"True."

This was going to be very tricky from here on out, Frankie thought. She swallowed the lump in her throat. I don't know how I feel about you. Just that you…you jumped Noah on my list of people to…to confide in and talk with. How did that happen? She lowered herself back to the bed, curling her fingers in the top of the covers. "I have to go back home soon," she murmured, her eyes focused on the ceiling. She tightened her fingers around the top of the covers. "I need to be with TJ." That's just fact, that's not because I'm trying to push my emotions away or whatever. He's my little brother, he's confused. Mom his sick and in the hospital and God knew her father, try as he might, would not be able to explain it as well as she could.

Beside her, Ryder shifted, fixing the alarm clock and then rolled back onto his side. "You have three hours," he murmured. "I set it for seven."

Good Lord. The sky would still be dark at seven. She smiled slightly, whispering. "You going to play reveille for me to wake up or something?"

"I might have another way to wake you up in mind."

Did Ryder just make a funny, she wondered, smiling and turning to face him, curling beneath the covers. "Yeah? You want to give me a hint?" She leaned in, waiting for him to kiss her, but he shook his head and tapped his finger to her lips. She scowled. "What?"

"Nope. Go to sleep."

Ugh, Frankie thought, turning over onto her side. She liked her space in her sleep. She was not a cuddling person. A few minutes later, she realized, unsurprised, that Ryder was the same way. Wow, she thought, shaking her head and sighing, closing her eyes to drift off to sleep. Guess we're not all that different. Her stomach flipped a little bit. A few hours later, the alarm was about to go off, but Frankie was already walking out of the room, glancing over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her, Ryder still fast asleep. We'll talk later, she thought, leaving the house without a note. She just couldn't deal with this right now.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:**At the moment this is the only fic I have that will be updated. I have a couple I'm sort of working on, but they are not ready for posting and I'm unsure about the response they'd get. In any case, this is it for now and I hope people are enjoying, despite its slow going. :)

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**Chapter 14**

"Lyla, no, no, no what are you doing?"

Lyla set down a glass of water in one hand and held onto a pitcher in her other. She turned around, staring at Tim, who rushed at her and practically tackled her against the counter, taking the pitcher from her. "It's less than five pounds," she protested, reaching around him for the pitcher again.

I better stop something before there's murder, Ryder thought, reaching over and taking the pitcher from Tim, placing it back in the fridge without saying a word. There had been a lot of that the last week. He couldn't even believe that he was involved in this, but Frankie hadn't left the house since her mother came home from the hospital, except to go out and get groceries. So he'd been dropping by, mostly to check on her, but like anything with the Riggins family, it never started out the way it was supposed to and he'd ended up making dinner most nights.

He turned around from the fridge, smiling slightly as Tim followed Lyla to the kitchen; Lyla had an annoyed look on her face as she walked slowly to her nest of blankets on the couch, where she'd been relegated when she wasn't in her bed. "Lyla, I'm just worried you're doing…here let me get…"

"Timothy Riggins!"

Uh-oh, first name, Ryder thought, glancing over his shoulder as Frankie came in from the side porch. "What are you doing out there? Your mom is going to kill your dad."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Frankie said, placing her sketchbook on the desk-nook beside the fridge. She glanced at the clock on the microwave. "Someone needs to get TJ from school, it was his holiday party today…" She walked around the post between the kitchen and living room, walking over to her parents. "Hey Daddy? You want to get TJ? I think he might want to see you. I'll stay with Mom."

"Why don't you both go?" Lyla snapped. She pulled a blanket up to her chest, wincing. The slight movement had Tim and Frankie lunging for her, but she held up her hand, glaring at them. "Get out of here. Both of you! I can't go to the bathroom without one of you following me and I can't lift the TV remote without one of you taking it from me! I'm fine!" She pointed to her chest, her lip quirking up in a wry smile. "I have cancer, but otherwise I'm fine."

Ryder smiled, hiding his laughter behind his hand. The sound had both Tim and Frankie turning, glaring at him with twin angry gazes. He shrugged, meeting Lyla's eyes, which were smiling at him. "What? I thought it was funny." Self-deprecating humor. He'd joked throughout his numerous surgeries on his knee that he should just lose his leg and get a bionic one so he could be part super-hero. Luke had found it hilarious, but Becky wanted to kill him, she'd been so mortified. Only people who had been in this situation could understand, he thought, nodding towards the front door. "I'll stay with her, if you guys want."

"That's very thoughtful Ryder, thank you," Lyla piped up from the couch. She shot a look at Tim. The speed with which she went from polite and sweet with him to pissed off at her husband and daughter was something to be marveled at, Ryder thought. "Go get TJ," she ordered.

"Lyla…"

She was already shaking her head, chuckling. "A week ago you didn't want anything to do with me, now you can't stop smothering. Pick an emotion Thirty-Three." Lyla gestured to Ryder again. "Ryder will sit with me and keep me company. Go get TJ before he thinks you've left him. Frankie, you should go too, you're twenty-six years old, and you need to get out of this house."

"But Mom…"

"Get. Out." The low threatening tone of her voice was enough to have Ryder almost take off, but Tim and Frankie shared one look and turned, walking out. Frankie shot him an unreadable look and lifted her finger, warning him of something, but when she glanced over her shoulder at her mother, Lyla simply arched an eyebrow and cocked her head. Whatever Frankie planned on saying, she kept her mouth shut and left with her father, the door closing loudly behind them. Probably aided by an extra tug of force by Tim.

He turned a little in place, unsure what to do. Ryder had never spent time with Lyla before; all he'd experienced was the little talk they'd had at Thanksgiving. "Can I get you anything?" he asked, shoving his hands into his pockets. At least it would give him something to do.

Lyla smiled, pushing the blankets off of her and standing. He didn't make a move to help her. She steadied herself and glanced in his direction, cocking her head again and studying him. After a moment, she spoke, slightly surprised. "You didn't help me up."

"You didn't look like you needed it."

"You're very blunt."

"Well you don't seem keen on people fluttering about you like you're some invalid," Ryder drawled. He leaned against the armchair, watching Lyla walk around him into the kitchen. She retrieved her glass of water from earlier and walked back, ignoring the couch and sitting in Tim's La-Z-Boy. The surgery had been tough on her, Frankie told him, but he didn't notice, except that the front of her shirt was a lot baggier than they had been and she seemed easily winded after walking across the house.

For the next few minutes, Lyla sipped her water and rocked in the La-Z-Boy. Ryder slumped down onto the other armchair and checked his phone. He looked up when Lyla leaned forward, the leather crinkling at her movement. She set her glass of water on a coaster on the table and leaned back again, her hands folding in her lap. She looked up at him. "So are you dating my daughter?"

Talk about blunt, Ryder thought. He wasn't sure how to answer that question. He shrugged. "I don't know," he answered truthfully. Dating? They hadn't had another night together since the first one. In fact, they hadn't spoken about it at all in the last week. Whether that was just because they were both busy with other things or because they were consciously avoiding it, Ryder couldn't say.

Lyla leaned a little farther back in the chair and crossed her legs. She closed her eyes, sighing through her nostrils. A moment passed and she cleared her throat, opening her eyes again. "You know what this…thing has kind of showed me Ryder?" She lifted an eyebrow, her lips twisting into an ironic smile. "That the one person in my family I thought would be able to survive in my absence…seems like she's going to collapse. Whereas my husband, who I thought would be the one dying too…he's going to be okay."

But you're not going to die or anything, Ryder thought, frowning slightly. This was not a conversation he wanted to get involved with. He barely knew Lyla! He swallowed nervously, looking down at his hands. "Um…maybe this isn't something…"

"No, I'm going to talk about it." Lyla smiled again, her voice soft. Very soft, Ryder thought; it was almost hypnotizing. "I have cancer. I don't have a death sentence on me, but it's worth thinking about. My prognosis seems good…I have to have radiation…"

"No chemo?" he asked, interrupting. Frankie hadn't mentioned it to him.

"We'll see," she whispered. She shrugged, but winced at the movement, reaching to touch her chest lightly before dropping her hand back to her knee. She smiled again, the pain from her movement still evident on her pale features. "I'll find out after the final pathology report comes back."

Good, he thought, looking up again. "That's great," he whispered.

"Yes, it's great," Lyla repeated. She didn't seem like it was great, he thought, frowning. She quirked her lip up again. "I want to know if you're with my daughter, because I like you Ryder. I don't…don't know the men she's dated…" She swallowed nervously. It was an area she's unfamiliar with and she doesn't like it, Ryder analyzed. Not in an overprotective way, just…more in a worrisome way. For Frankie, he figured. "All I know," Lyla continued, holding up her finger. Her voice seemed weaker. It was a lot of emotional energy. "Is that she was in love with Isaac, in her band. She's very…she's very out there with her emotions. They can be all over the place and…well quite frankly Ryder I think she really likes you and I just want you to be careful."

Are you warning me away from her, he wondered, frowning a little. Ryder shook his head, whispering. "We're friends, Lyla."

She pursed her lips, scanning him. Just up and down, a slight drop and lift of her eyes. "No," she murmured. She shook her head slightly. "No you're not." Lyla sighed, closing her eyes. She was tired, this was taxing her, Ryder thought, moving to get up, but he wasn't sure what he should do. "Just be careful Ryder. She's in a vulnerable place right now. She's just…" She opened her eyes again and lifted an eyebrow, whispering. "It's rough for her right now. She's taking a break from music…"

"She's leaving music," Ryder mumbled, correcting Lyla.

"Excuse me?"

Uh-oh. He looked up, trying to hide his slip. "She's leaving music…temporarily. Just a break, you know, before she gets back to work on the album. Touring…that sort of a thing." You suck at lying, he thought. And Lyla could probably see a lie coming at her a million miles away.

Yup, he thought, as she narrowed her eyes. She curved her lip up, half-smiling. "You know Ryder, I live with champion liars. Even TJ, innocent though he may be. It's in the Riggins DNA. You suck at it."

I know. He sighed hard, closing his eyes and sitting back down. "I'm sorry, I don't…don't tell Frankie I slipped. She's not even sure…" Even though she is fairly sure. He smiled a little, whispering. "She says she's leaving music. We'll see how true that is in a few weeks."

"She puts too much pressure on herself and she cracks. She can't handle the emotions. It's funny…" Lyla sighed, shaking her head and smiling. "She's so much to handle sometimes. She's all over the place, one extreme to the next, but…but she hides so, so much. Divorced kid, only child for most of her life…away from her father, whom she adored, for a large part of it too. She's got so many things going on sometimes she doesn't know where to focus, so she hides a lot of what she truly feels. She loves music Ryder. I just think when she got into it professionally…all that pressure to be the best and the first….it stressed her too much and now here she is."

Made sense, he guessed. Along with her need to make sure everyone else was taken care of before herself. Ryder sank back onto the edge of the couch. He looked down at his hands, his voice quiet. "Do you want me to do anything?"

"Convince her," Lyla said.

Convince her? Convince her to do what? He shook his head, slightly confused. Lyla quirked her lip upward. Her voice was a little thinner than before, her fatigue beginning to show more. "Convince her Ryder. She listens to you. She listens to two people. Two people in this world can tell her absolutely anything and she will believe it and she will listen. That's her father and Noah Street. The fact that you are number three…" She grinned. "Well that's just very interesting."

Frankie won't listen to me. He shrugged. "In case you haven't noticed, she does the absolute opposite of what I tell her. She doesn't listen to me." You beat Noah, she'd said to him a week ago, that night she'd come to his house. He'd seen how she was around Noah at Thanksgiving. He hadn't been jealous; there was no reason to be. Frankie treated him like she treated her cousins. Like a big brother and best friend combined.

Lyla smiled again, nodding in understanding. "Yeah, she tends to do that, but…but she will. When it counts, she'll listen to you." She sighed, whispering. "My daughter and I aren't as close as she is to Tim. She'll listen to you before she'll listen to me." She frowned a little, whispering. "Just please. Don't let her consume herself with me. I can do what I can, but to a point. I'm going ot be fine Ryder. This thing is just…" She rolled her eyes. "This thing just pisses me off. We were going to take TJ to Disney World in February and I'll be having radiation treatments. Now we have to go in June with the rest of the tourists. Pisses me off."

And that's the attitude you should have. "Pissed me off when my leg was practically hanging off me," he said, shrugging. "You get over it."

"Yeah but your leg is still on you." Lyla rolled her eyes, tugging down her sweatshirt. "I'm missing some things." This is the end of our conversation, he thought, cringing. "Oh relax," she laughed. "Nothing you haven't seen before."

"No offense Mrs. Riggins, but I don't feel like getting beat up by your husband for talking about your…" He waved his hand around in the general direction of her chest. "Cancer or not."

"Did you just call me Mrs. Riggins? What did I tell you at Thanksgiving? There is no such thing as a Mrs. Riggins. I'm Lyla. If you feel the need to use my last name, you can call me Garrity." She rolled her eyes. "Everyone else does."

I can't call you Garrity, he thought, shaking his head. "Miss Lyla?" he suggested.

"Makes me sound like a ninety-year old woman who passes out cookies to the neighborhood children."

He sighed. "I suppose Lyla will be fine."

She smiled again. "Yes, I suppose it will. You are dating my daughter."

"Not dating."

"We'll see about that," Lyla mumbled, leaning back in the chair. She waved her hand in the direction of where he was sitting on the couch. "Pass me that blanket please, I'm just going to rest my eyes."

That's what my mother says when she's going to take a nap. He stood up and gently laid the blanket over her, about to say again that he wasn't dating Frankie, just in case she really did think that, when he saw that she had already fallen asleep. He smiled a little and gently lifted her hands, placing them in her lap, rather than fallen at her sides. He stepped away and cleaned up some of the clutter on the coffee table, putting away empty glasses and tossing away Kleenex and wrappers from cough drops, which he had wondered about until Frankie told him her throat was really sore from the breathing tube they'd had to give her.

He stepped outside onto the back porch, unsure what to do with himself while Lyla slept and the rest of the family was outside. He sank onto a porch swing, kicking off from his heel and reaching into his pocket for his phone, but it was another phone in his possession that began to go off. Ryder frowned, glancing down at Frankie's phone, which he'd retrieved from his backyard the day before. He'd intended to give it to her when he dropped by earlier, but like most things with Frankie and her family, he got caught up with them.

Don't answer it, every voice in his mind was telling him. He stared at the face and the name on the top of the phone. Isaac. What the hell, he thought, answering the phone and lifting it to his ear. "Frankie's phone."

"Um…where is Frankie?" Issac seemed to be frowning. "Who…who is this exactly? This is Frankie's phone, right?'

"Yes," Ryder answered. The ex-boyfriend. The one that used Frankie and tossed her aside when he was done. He scowled. "I'm Ryder. A friend."

"Her boyfriend? I heard she had someone new."

"No," he snapped. He wasn't sure how Frankie could still be friends, let alone work with someone, she used to date and who had seemingly just treated her like something to take from for the better part of a year, she'd hinted at and what he'd read online. He sighed. "This is Ryder Cafferty. Sheriff Ryder Cafferty."

"Oh. Well this is Isaac Clarke, I'm in her band. I wanted to see how she was doing. Our manager said that he hasn't heard from her and…and the rest of the band hasn't heard from her either. She's kind of the reason why we're all here, so I guess I just want to know where she is."

Where she is? "If she doesn't want to talk to you guys, I can't say I blame her," Ryder said, his voice clipped. The British came out more when he was quiet angry, Frankie told him. It was when he was yelling loudly did he sound like something out of a Western. He could even feel the iciness when he spoke. "You lot forced her out of her band, which as you say, you would not be there without her. You used her and when you could, you let her go without a thought. She stayed with you and she says that it's nothing, but it is. It's not fair Isaac, it's just not fair for Frankie. She's going through a lot with her family right now and to be honest, this is just not even on her radar right now."

"Family?" Isaac asked, concerned. "What's going on? Is it her dad?"

"No," Ryder snapped. He smirked. "You'll have to talk to Frankie about that. Leave her be. She'll come back when she's ready, but if I were you, I'd be looking for a new job soon." He disconnected and set the phone aside, scowling at the wide expanse of land in front of him. Damnit. That was not a good call Ryder, he thought, shaking his head and getting up. He went back into the house, setting Frankie's phone on the counter, in full display for her when she came back inside.

As he was preparing to start the dishes, because what else was he going to do, several minutes later, the back door opened, TJ bursting forward, stopping in his tracks when he saw Lyla asleep in the chair. He held his finger to his lips, looking at Ryder and smiling. "Quiet," he said.

"Yes," Tim whispered, signing without speaking. TJ signed back, seemingly annoyed. Tim shrugged and signed again. Best as Ryder could get, it seemed to be equivalent to "Tough noogies." TJ scowled, walking quietly, or as quietly as a six-year old could, upstairs with his backpack. Tim turned around, frowning at the sink, which Ryder had filled with soap and water. "We have a dishwasher."

"And his name is Ryder, don't say anything Daddy, just let him clean," Frankie said, coming into the house holding a few bags from the grocery store. She set them on the counter, smiling quickly. "How's Mom?"

Thinking back on the feistiness Lyla had displayed during their conversation earlier, Ryder shrugged. "Pretty good."

"Good." Frankie glanced over her shoulder when there was a soft cry of pain, as Lyla cringed when Tim carefully lifted her from the chair. She was still half-asleep, not acknowledging them as he carried her upstairs. She sighed, shaking her head and whispering, turning towards him, her big hazel eyes shining. "This sucks."

For you or for Lyla? Ryder pursed his lips a little, glancing back at the sink. He ran his tongue over his teeth, whispering. "She's not as fragile as you think she is."

"I know."

No, I don't quite think you do. He shook his head again. She wouldn't listen to him. Especially about her mother of all people. "Um…" The phone call. Really, really, I need to really let her know about that phone call. He sighed hard, picking up the sponge and began to clean. "So you got a phone call. It was Isaac."

"You have my phone?"

"Yes." He pointed to the counter. "There." After a moment, waiting on her to retrieve her phone and ignoring her quick, annoyed look at him, he continued to wash the dishes, speaking quiet again. "I went outside and found your phone. Anyways, I saw it was him and answered…"

"Why are you answering my phone?" Frankie demanded, holding it out at almost an arm's length. She glared at him, her hazel eyes burning hot. Yeah, I know, you're not happy about it, I get it, he thought, shaking his head and about to explain, but she continued, her voice tight. "Do you know what's going on with me and my band? You don't. It's not any of your business. Do not answer my phone again."

Ryder shut off the water, dropping the sponge into the sink and turning around, drying his hands off on a towel, and trying to keep his anger in check. He scowled, his voice stern, chastising. "Before you go crazy, I answered it because you won't answer. You might have it all figured out with Los Angeles and music and the band, but they're just sitting around wondering Frankie. It isn't fair. What they did was pretty shitty, I'll admit that. You brought them fame and glory and their futures, but they turn around and kick you out at the first sign of pressure. They deserve to know that you've decided to up and leave…"

"I'm not up and leaving," Frankie snapped. She gestured towards him with the phone, her voice jumping up and down in volume as she tried to keep it in check and not yell. "If you must know Ryder, I was planning on talking to Glen and the band next week. I hold a controlling interest in the band per our contract with the record company, which means I have the final say, even if the band comes together to push me out for good. It means I have complete creative control if I wanted to get bitchy about it, but I try not to be like that, despite what you might think. We're going to finish our record, we're going to promote it, and we're going to go on one final tour. Then I plan on selling my interest and departing Gridiron. I'm going to keep a contract with the company, in the event I want to be a solo artist, but my band doesn't want me anymore and quite frankly, I think I'm over that whole thing." She looked around the living room, her voice dropping. "I ran off a long time ago from this place Ryder. It's time for me to be with my family."

No one is saying not to do that, he thought, dropping the dishcloth on the counter. He approached her and reached up to wipe at a stray eyelash on her cheek. She didn't talk about her reasons for running off the way she did, to show business. Just that she had. That it's what she wanted and her family supported her decision to the fullest. "That's fine," he whispered. He smiled quickly; that wasn't the reason for him even really bringing this up and all. "I'm just saying…the band deserves to know. It's good you've got a plan."

All he had to do was just push aside the weird feeling he had in his stomach, an…annoyance, he guessed, that she hadn't confided her plan in him. He swallowed hard, looking up when Tim stepped around the corner into the kitchen, stopping in his tracks. He dropped his hand from Frankie's cheek. She frowned, turning to glance over her shoulder. "Hey Daddy," she greeted him, turning back to Ryder. "Ryder was just leaving."

Excuse me? Tim cleared his throat audibly. Obviously too, Ryder thought, glancing at him and shrugging, silently asking what his problem was. Tim shrugged, his tongue running over his teeth and his hands on his hips. "Whatever. He's your boyfriend Frankie."

"He's not my boyfriend," Frankie snapped, walking out of the kitchen with her phone clutched in her hand. A few minutes later, music came filtering from the side porch, off the living room; haunting string music.

Tim cursed low under his breath, shooting a glare at Ryder. What did I do now, he wondered, glancing in the direction of the music again. It was so pretty. Very sad, but pretty. "She's got the cello out now," he mumbled, grabbing open the fridge and taking out a beer. "You want one?"

No, I probably should be leaving. "She plays the cello too?" What instrument didn't the prodigy play? "What's wrong with that?"

"Means she's…it's just not a good place for her to be," Tim explained, in a cryptic way. He tilted his beer in his direction, and lifted his eyebrow. "You've gotten under her skin." He quirked his lip up. "Good for you."

I am getting so many mixed signals from this family. First with Frankie and then from her parents. Tim warned him off at Thanksgiving and Lyla encouraged him a bit. Now it was Lyla warning him and Tim encouraging him. They needed to get their stories straight. I don't even know why I'm dealing with this stupid family, Ryder thought, shaking his head and pushing away from the counter. "I should go," he said. It would be best if he started pulling away anyhow. Before he got too involved.

"Thanks for watching Garrity," Tim whispered. He looked up over the rim of the beer, smiling a little. It didn't meet his eyes. It was so funny how both him and Frankie could do that, Ryder thought. One moment they were teasing and the next they were serious and sad. He looked down at his boots. "I appreciate it."

Yeah no problem, Ryder thought, smiling a little and nodding. "You're welcome." He sighed hard, pointing to the door. "I need to get back to work." Back to my life. "I'll see you around." He walked by Tim without saying anything else, closing the front door behind him and jumping off the porch, taking the pathway steps to the driveway two at a time. At his patrol car, he turned around and looked at the house, seeing Frankie on the porch, a cello in her arms, slowly dragging the bow over the strings.

You constantly surprise me. He shoved his sunglasses on and climbed into his car, driving out of the lot. On his way out, he made sure to lock the gates behind him, punching in the code Frankie told him. He pulled out onto the road, driving off and slowing down as an unfamiliar car slowly approached the Riggins homestead. He rolled down his window to get a better look.

The people in the car didn't notice him, too busy craning their necks at the house. Someone pulled out a camera and snapped a photo, slowing further as they neared the house. Okay, that's it, he thought, turning around and hitting the sirens quickly, coming up behind the car. It stopped and flicked on its hazards. Ryder called in that he'd stopped a suspicious vehicle outside the Riggins house. "QB isn't home, he's got an away game," someone said on the same channel, referring to Steve's code name on the channel, in case someone managed to get in and listen.

"Not Steve, it's Elvis's house." Frankie wouldn't be happy if she ever found out that was her code name with the local police and sheriff departments. Ryder tapped in the license plate into the computer, waiting until it came back. Rental car out of Midland International. Not good, he thought, shoving on his sunglasses and climbing out, making sure his badge and gun were visible as he approached. He even had the Stetson on, to make him look even more imposing. He heard the windshield roll down, and kept his hand on his gun. "Good afternoon," he said, trying to hide his British accent as much as possible.

"I don't think we were speeding," one of the two men said from inside the car. Ryder cracked his gum audibly. He shot him a dark look and tried to hide the camera between the seats. "We were just looking at that house."

Ryder shrugged, shaking his head. "No problem against looking, but I'm afraid it's taking pictures that caused me concern. Can I see some identification please?"

"We weren't breaking the law," the other guy said. You don't want to show me your IDs? Ryder shook his head and whistled low. One of the occupants scowled. "We were just passing through."

"You gents are awfully defensive for just passing through. Can I ask what you're doing in Texas? And I will need to see some ID or else we can continue this conversation at the Carr County Sheriff Department Holding Facility," he said, smiling. That got their attention. He took their IDs, holding them up. "Be right back. You work on that story." He returned to the car and called it in, waiting on the computer to return with their information. It popped up a second later. Shit, he thought, closing his eyes briefly. Multiple charges, no convictions, for both men out of Los Angeles County. Stalking, Intimidation, Assault…paparazzi. Ryder grabbed his radio. "I got photogs trying to get shots of Elvis and her family. Keep an eye out for anyone else suspicious, including around QB and Ballerina's house. Thank you." He signed off and climbed out of the car, walking back towards the car. He passed them their ID. "Good to go, but just for future reference." He dropped the sunglasses, his British coming out, glaring at them both. "I suggest you get back to Los Angeles as soon as possible. We don't take kindly around here to people stalking and attempting to invade on the privacy of our local residents. If I see you again, I will arrest you. Get the hell out of here."

It worked, because both men gulped, mumbled okay, and began scrambling to get away as Ryder sidled back to his patrol car. He stood outside of it, watching as they did a U-turn and sped off. He shook his head, sighing hard and removed his hat again, climbing into the car. He hit his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. "Fuck," he cursed. The last thing he needed was paparazzi chasing Frankie. For all he knew, she'd try to make it seem like it was his fault. Great. He sighed and put his car into gear, driving away towards Steve and Gracie's house, just to make sure the paps left everyone alone.


	15. Chapter 15

Thanks for the reviews! Glad people are enjoying. Hoping to wrap this up soon, but it's slow going. Enjoy!

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**Chapter 15**

The bow felt loose in her hand, but Frankie had control of it, allowing it to it to move slowly over the cello as she lifted her fingers up and down on the strings, her eyes closed and letting the achy cello sound fill her up. She'd been playing it for the better part of three days, not stopping, except to paint and to be with her family. When she was at the house, she played the cello, because Lyla enjoyed classical music and well, Frankie wanted to do something for her.

It drove her father mad though; he'd told her several times to take it somewhere else. "I feel like I'm going to die when you start playing that thing," he'd grumbled. TJ had agreed, but the low tone of the cello vibrated at a speed he could hear well. Probably why he didn't like it, she thought.

She looked up at the stand in front of her, the notes blending together. Now and then she liked to experiment with different instruments and music. Some of her songs included the cello with the drums and the rock music. I'll never go classical, she thought, but I can at least incorporate it. Frankie looked up when the door opened, not stopping her playing as Lyla walked out of the house, looking tired. "Hey," she said, dropping her gaze to the music sheet again. "How are you feeling?"

"Better, but I'm tired of napping." She sighed, rolling her eyes. "Feel like I'm pregnant again, with all the sleep I'm getting." Lyla sat beside her on the bench, looking at the sheet music scattered around the stand, the porch floor, and the bench. "What are you playing?"

"A song for the new album." She sighed, her voice soft. "I spoke to our manager. The plan is all set. I'm sending the music to the band, to practice. We have a date set to perform at New Year's Rockin' Eve."

"What?! You didn't want to tell me that?"

It wasn't that big of a deal, she thought. It wasn't like she did it for the glory, but they were one of the hotter rock bands around. Besides, Isaac knew one of the producers and had gotten them a spot back in November, before everything kind of imploded. As far as Glen was aware, they were still good to go for it, since they'd signed a contract. I don't violate the contracts, she thought idly. They were going to perform one of the new songs, they just didn't know it yet. A few practice sessions and they'd be fine. She didn't answer her mother's question, continuing. "I'll go back to Los Angeles after New Year's, to finish everything up for the record." This break was working for her, but at the same time she didn't want to go back. She'd fulfill her obligations, but she planned on making many trips back out here to be with her mother and to help with TJ.

This isn't about anyone else. I'm doing what I want for myself, she thought, glancing sideways at Lyla. "What?" she asked, knowing that her mother was thinking of something. She had a look on her face. Just a little pursed lip and forehead wrinkle. It would come out eventually. Lyla didn't hide her feelings; she was just a bit more polite about telling you to your face that you were doing a stupid thing. "You don't want me to go back to Los Angeles?"

Lyla shook her head, crossing her arms and legs. She winced a little as her shoulders pulled forward, sighing and smiling. "No, that's not it. I'm just…I don't want you to feel obligated. We've gone over this enough times, but…" She sighed hard, reaching her hand over and touching her wrist. "I want you to know that I heard back from the doctor."

Doctor. Oh shit. This was it. Frankie dropped the bow to her side, in the cello case, setting the instrument to the side, propped against the porch railing. She turned, her hands trembling. This was it. If it was bad or good. She stared straight at Lyla, who was just smiling; of course, that didn't mean anything. Lyla was a champion at taking a bad situation and making it easier to deal with. Usually by smiling. "And?" she whispered, taking her hands and squeezing. I cannot take this. Just freakign tell me! "Mom?"

Lyla's smile fell a little, her shoulders lifting slightly. Here it was. "It's not as bad as they initially thought," she whispered, her face soft again. She began to smile, unable to contain herself. "No chemotherapy needed, they're going to do radiation and…and go from there. I'll start after Christmas. Once everything is…is done, they'll get my reconstruction started."

Oh my God. Oh my God, she thought again, relief washing over her. She didn't mean for it to happen, but she let out a sob, reaching for her mother and holding tight. Jesus, she thought, wiping at her eyes as she held her as close as she could, still careful of Lyla's stitches and the pain she was still in. "That's great," she managed to get out, when Lyla soothingly told her that it would be all right. She wiped at her eyes and fell back, sniffing and nodding. "That's great."

"I told you it would be okay," Lyla murmured, wiping at her eyes and reaching to stroke at her hair. Like I'm a little kid again, Frankie thought, smiling softly, feeling her eyes droop a little as the comfort of her mother soothing her beginning to spread through her.

This is getting too serious, Frankie thought. I better liven it up a bit. She smiled slightly, knowing how to do it. She reached for her mother's shirt and tugged a little on it. Lyla glanced down, frowning. "What…what are you doing?"

"Wondering what size you should be."

"Francesca!" Lyla's cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment. She tried to seem stern, frowning again. "I am your mother."

And I'm starting to realize that you have cancer and…well…maybe I've been too serious about it all, Frankie thought. That was never her thing. She always was the one cracking jokes at the worst possible time. I've been so consumed with my own drama, Frankie thought, smiling again. Ryder was right, she thought idly. Better keep going, I've already dug my grave. She glanced at her chest. "Well you didn't give me much in that department Mom. Maybe you should go a couple sizes up, but I'd consult with Dad. He's the one who will be using them."

Okay, I stepped over the line, she thought, laughing at the horrified look on her mom's face. "Francesca Garrity Riggins, I am not…" Lyla stood up, covering her ears and walking into the house, going 'la la la' as Frankie jumped up and chased after her, laughing. Good, she wanted to hear Lyla laugh. She followed Lyla into the kitchen, leaning on the counter. Lyla glared at her over the counter, lifting her finger and jabbing it in her direction. "I'm not talking about my breast size with my daughter. Especially not your father's opinion on the matter. We're going to talk about something else. We're going to talk about Ryder Cafferty."

Oh damnit, we are not going to talk about Ryder Cafferty. Frankie shook her head, rolling her eyes and sighed. She hadn't spoken to Ryder in two days. "Mom."

"I'm not going to say anything on the matter except that you've been playing that damn cello out there for two days straight. You might be working, but you're also mourning something, so why don't you go find Ryder and talk with him?" Lyla smiled brightly, her eyes lighting up. "I'm quite fine on my own. Where's TJ?" She cupped her hands around her mouth, yelling. "TJ!"

He's deaf Mom, Frankie thought, rolling her eyes again. She walked to the stairs, looking up and banging her hand on the wall. A door opened and TJ leaned out, scowling down the stairs. She signed for him to come downstairs to hang out with Mom. He made a face and said he needed to go to the library. I'll take you, she thought, signing back. "Okay," he said, disappearing into his room again.

She returned to the kitchen, picking up her coat. "I'm taking him to the library. Do you want anything?"

"I'm dying for a cheeseburger."

"You know you shouldn't be eating unhealthy food."

"I've had nothing but healthy food for the last week and my appetite is back, get me a cheeseburger. With fries. Cheese fries." Lyla's eyes seemed to glaze over, her voice dropping to a mumble, as she thought out loud. "Chili cheese fries…and a milkshake too."

"You sound like Dad."

"No your dad would want an entire bag of Cheetos and a beer." Lyla went over to the mudroom to get TJ's coat when he circled around the corner, holding some comic books he likely was going to trade in at the store beside the library. My six-year old brother is such a little con, she thought lovingly, ruffling his hair as he reached his arm out to slip into the jacket Lyla held out for him, speaking over the top of his head. "Besides, your father's taste for junk food is going to come back and bite him in the ass one of these days. I still can't believe his cholesterol isn't through the roof."

"He works out."

"He lays on the couch and gets up to get more food, that's him working out," Lyla grumbled, tugging a hat over TJ's head. She signed to him that she didn't want to hear it; he was going to wear the hat because it was cold outside. TJ made a face, but didn't move to take off the hat. She kissed his cheek. "I love you. Be good for your sister."

Let's get this show on the road. Frankie picked up the keys to Lyla's SUV, since TJ couldn't ride in her two-seater Camaro, and her bag, exiting the house with TJ in tow. They set off, with TJ talking about which books he wanted to get. Maybe we'll stop at the library too, she thought, turning onto the road outside the house, glancing in the mirror to make sure the gates swung back.

They drove into town several minutes later, stopping at the library first. TJ hopped out, running to the front doors. Out of the corner of her eye, Frankie saw Ryder coming out of the police station, holding a sheaf of papers. He looked the same, she noted. Not that she expected him to change much in two days. She ran her tongue over her teeth, catching his eye and lifting her fingers, waving a little. He paused and shrugged, waving back. Yeah, that wasn't awkward, she thought, rolling her eyes and turning to go into the library to save herself from any further mortification.

I really need to figure out what I'm doing with him, she thought, finding TJ in the kid section, plucking books at random as they caught his eye. She lifted up a children's version of _Moby Dick_, chuckling and turning it around to him, signing "Really?"

He shrugged. "It's got a whale on it."

"Yes, but it's really not about a whale." I cannot explain allegory and metaphor to a six-year old, there's no way, she thought, dropping the book back on the pile at his side.

Her little brother agreed. "Whatever," TJ said, rolling his eyes at her, reaching for another book. You're six, she thought, helping him with the books. She ran her tongue over her teeth, wondering if her parents were planning on getting him tested. Maybe he'll be like me, with the photographic memory and everything.

"Hello Riggins clan."

Frankie turned her head, smiling quickly, but feeling her palms sweat at the presence of Ryder beside her. "Hey," she said, crossing her arms and deftly wiping her hands on her sides. "What's up?"

"Hi Ryder," TJ said. He picked up another book, putting some more on his stack. After he'd accumulated enough to reach the top of his head as he stood up, he sighed, looking up and smiling. "I'm done."

"Need some help?" Ryder took a stack with him, carting them to the checkout, where TJ insisted in line by himself and using his own library card. Like an adult, he signed. So they both stepped aside, allowing TJ his opportunity to feel like an adult. Frankie looked sideways at him, smiling a little again. Well this isn't entirely awkward. "Been awhile," Ryder whispered.

"Two days."

"How are you doing?"

Why does it feel like we're strangers? She swallowed hard, feeling her throat tighten. "Good," she whispered. She lifted her eyes up again, smiling once more. "I'm really sorry," she said. I don't quite know why I'm apologizing, but I know I should. She shook her head, breathing her next few words. She really was sorry, now that she was standing here with him again, her stomach in knots. "I shouldn't have…you were just trying to help…with Isaac and…and stuff. Sorry."

You have every right to tell me to take a hike, she thought, still looking at him. I wish I could read your mind. His face was just blank. Until it broke into a smirk. "You just have got to stop jumping to conclusions," he whispered, his arm going around her waist. He kissed her cheek, whispering into her ear, lest anyone around them overheard. "Stop by my place tonight."

She giggled, kissing his cheek in return and stepping aside when TJ approached them. He narrowed his eyes. "You talking about me?" he asked, passing her a stack of books to hold.

"Yes," Ryder answered.

"What did you say?"

"He said you were paying for hot chocolate." Frankie grinned at her little brother's wide-eyed, shocked look. He frowned slightly and quickly signed he didn't have any money. She giggled, kneeling down to give him a hug. "Sorry cutie, I was just teasing. But do you want some? Let's go get some hot chocolate."

He shook his head, wrinkling his nose and signed that he wanted cider. Well then we'll get cider, she said, signing back that he was like their dad, who wasn't a fan of chocolate. TJ agreed. He liked apples, he signed, when Ryder asked him why he wanted cider instead of hot chocolate. They walked out of the library together, TJ grabbing hold of Ryder's hand, without prompting.

The movement startled Ryder, who was holding some of TJ's books under his arm. He looked over at her, his eyes questioning. She shrugged; if TJ wanted to hold his hand, just let him. It wasn't a big deal. She exited the library, walking TJ to the SUV; Ryder had parked a couple spaces from them. "We'll meet you over at the coffee shop," she said, smiling a little.

"Okay," Ryder said, passing TJ his books. He knocked knuckles with him, which TJ loved doing. "Later man."

"Later," TJ said. He leaned forward in his booster seat when she climbed into the driver's seat, waiting until she had clipped her seatbelt in and began backing out when he cleared his throat, asking innocently. "Are you and Ryder getting married?"

Frankie slammed her foot on the brake, or else she was going to reverse right back into the middle of the main road. She stared at TJ's reflection in the rearview mirror. "Ah…why do you ask that?" she asked. What happened to make him think that they were getting married? Did she show him anything or something? Ryder just held TJ's hand. He kissed her cheek. It wasn't like they were making out or anything.

"Dunno."

She sighed, relieved. Must have just been his six-year old mind of boy meets girl, boy and girl get married mentality. Good. "Okay. Cool." Frankie backed out of the spot, driving away towards the coffee shop. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a car turn out of a parking lot by the library. It seemed to gun its engine to get closer to her, blowing through a red light after she passed through a yellow. Weird. Like they wanted to get close to her.

You're paranoid, she thought, dragging her attention from it to TJ, who was asking about if they could see Aunt Gracie later. He wanted to feel the baby, because last time the baby was sleeping and he wanted to feel it punch, the way that Uncle Steve said it did. We'll go later, she thought, pulling into a spot in front of the coffee shop. It looked like Ryder was already inside, getting their order. I'll deal with this crap later, she thought, lifting TJ from the car. As she set him down, she took his hand, squeezing it a little harder than necessary. She stopped, forcing TJ to stop. He scowled up at her, signing angrily that she almost made him trip.

"Sorry," she mumbled and signed distractedly, looking over her shoulder. Being in the limelight for the last few years, she knew when people were watching her. It became a survival technique, especially if you were like her and didn't go looking for the paparazzi. She looked up and down the street, but the suspicious car was gone. There was no one else around. Usually they were obvious. She didn't think that would change in tiny Dillon, Texas.

"Come on!" TJ exclaimed, pointing to the door. "Inside! I'm cold!"

Okay, okay. Frankie shook her head, shaking the feeling off with her. Paranoid. You're finally getting stuff on track. Mom's healthy, Dad's…just being Dad which was a good thing, your career is getting back to life again, and now…well now you're talking with Ryder again. "Don't go looking for trouble," she mumbled to herself, walking into the coffee shop and letting go of TJ, who rocketed to Ryder. She joined them at a small booth in the corner, shrugging off her coat. "Hey," she greeted him, smiling wide.

He nudged a latte in her direction, exactly as she preferred. You do remember, she thought, smiling thankfully at him. He smiled back, glancing to TJ, who was already slurping up whipped cream from the top of his hot apple cider. "So what books did you get?"

"Airplane books."

"Yeah?" So that started a conversation about how Ryder knew how to fly helicopters, which he preferred to airplanes. Which led to an argument and debate over which was better. Frankie pushed the paranoia from her mind, picking a pen out of her purse and dragged a napkin to her, beginning to scribble music lyrics as they started finding their way into her head. She was going to have a hell of a record after this emotionally draining visit, she thought, smiling when Ryder asked what she was doing.

She finished a line about hot chocolate and apple cider, wondering if she might have a holiday song on her hands. "Nothing," she answered, folding it up and shoving the napkin into her purse, folding her hands on the table. "So? Do we think Uncle Steve is going to win another Super Bowl this year?"

That changed the conversation into a rather heated direction, as TJ began to mimic what he'd likely seen Tim saying about how Steve was losing it this year since Gracie was having a baby and he was doing terrible. Trying to get TJ to stop copying her father's voice took priority, while Ryder laughed and egged it on, pushing everything out of her mind.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

"So are you going to marry my cousin or what?" Ryan asked, fiddling with a prime specimen of a machine in Steve's garage. He straightened up from where he was leaning over the engine, dropping some of his tools in a tray along the wall. He glanced over at Gracie, who was in some sort of complicated yoga pose on the floor. "Don't you agree Grace?"

"I am trying to get this child off my bladder," Gracie snapped, unfolding her legs from where she had them pretzeled over her head. How could that possibly be good for the baby, Ryder wondered, but wisely kept his mouth shut. He elbowed Ryan in the gut, lest the idiot Riggins get fancy ideas. She breathed deeply, taking up a meditation position. Her eyes closed and she shrugged. "But I do agree."

This is ridiculous. Ryder poked his nose over the F-1. "This is nice."

"Don't touch it, it's something I'm working on."

"Did you really get that job with McLaren or are you currently breaking the law? That could have been anyone I talked to a few weeks ago." He knew engines, but Ryan was the expert. Tim even admitted that he knew more about cars than him. Ryder wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, so he'd asked Frankie. She told him that it was huge. She joked that it was like the Pope telling someone else they knew more about Catholicism.

Ryan reached for another socket wrench, adjusting something on the gleaming motor. "I really do have a job. With McLaren. I know it's a shock, but this screwup actually is on the right track." He looked up, flashing a grin. "Did I just feel a cold blast of air from hell?"

That was exactly my thought. Ryder chuckled, leaning back against the tool bench. He crossed his arms over his chest, glancing at Gracie again. She was still meditating. How she could do that out here was beyond him. He also briefly wondered what she was doing out here; she had an entire mansion to go meditate in and she chose the garage? He called out to her. "You want to go somewhere quieter? I think he's going to start…"

Too late, he thought, as Ryan climbed into the car, the engine purring like a kitten, barely even making a sound, until he started to push his foot on the gas, revving it up like a racecar. He whooped, turning it off and climbing out, peeking over at it. "Beautiful," he murmured, practically caressing some of the pipes. "Just beautiful."

"I'm going inside, because it's getting weird in here," Gracie said, jumping to her feet. She shrugged on a coat over her tank top and yoga pants, her feet shoving into slippers. "If any of you hear from my husband before me, tell him that he's a dead man. It's a week from Christmas!"

"State game tomorrow," Ryan reminded them. He wiped a rag over his tools, shining them up. "Just in case you haven't run into Buddy Garrity yet. Or been outside. I think the whole town is going crazy. You know Frankie's performing, right?"

What? Gracie rolled her eyes. "That girl. She doesn't bother to tell me? Is it just her or the band?"

"I think she got the band to come out. Kind of like a peace offering."

And she didn't want to tell me, Ryder wondered. Not that they'd done much talking the last couple of days. They'd spent the last two nights together, but he had to work and she'd been consuming herself with getting the last bits of her songs together to send back to Los Angeles, recording in a makeshift studio in Matt's old house. Guess she was also planning on performing at the State Championship. He imagined that would be fun for all the kids…a free performance from a hot rock band.

He didn't say anything, but it must have showed on his face, because Gracie smirked. "Guess I'm not the only one she didn't bother to tell. Not even her boyfriend."

He scowled at Gracie. "Don't you have a husband to go talk to or something?"

"I should go talk to my husband, but he's getting the silent treatment."

Don't ask, Ryder thought; quite frankly, he didn't really care. It wasn't his business. He looked down at the F-1, shaking his head and whistling under his breath. Cars weren't his thing, but he did like engines. He sometimes worked with the technicians on his Apache. It just made the ache to fly a little deeper in his stomach. He rubbed at his knee, which also began to ache at the memories, turning away from the car and Ryan. "I'm going to go back to work. Tell Steve I'll see him when he comes back into town."

"Sure," Gracie said, opening up the door to walk him out, her eyes widening at the sight of someone that looked exactly like Ryan. "Scotty!"

"Hey!" Scott yelled, throwing his arms around Gracie. He laughed loudly, hugging her tight. "You look beautiful! I've been gone too long, you look like you have a watermelon under there. Or are you just happy to see me?"

"Shut up," Gracie giggled, slapping Scott Riggins' on the back. She kissed him hard on the lips, dropping back to her feet and stepping aside so he could move into the garage. He dropped a giant bag at her feet, looking over at his twin, who hadn't made a move to come see him. "Your brother has a job."

"What?"

It was shocking, Ryder agreed. He hadn't seen Scott in ages. Arctic weather seemed to have taken a toll on him; his cheeks were ruddy and smooth from windburn, and he had a thick mountain-man beard. Other than that and about a foot of hair that fell to his shoulders and around his face, he was identical to Ryan. "How are you?" he asked, shaking Scott's hand quickly. "Back for Christmas?"

Scott nodded, sighing hard. "Yup. Heard about Aunt Lyla, I just couldn't stay away knowing that she was sick. Got a week to come down here for Christmas and it's back up to Nunavut."

"I'll have Nunavut talk," Ryan finally said from the car. He looked over at his brother, scowling. "Where the hell is that anyway? Thought you were at the North Pole with Santa Claus."

His twin threw a wrench in his direction. "It's Canada you asshole. I get a plane there up to the camp on the magnetic North Pole."

"You get your Nobel Prize yet?"

"Soon," Scott said, with such sincerity that Ryder fully believed he would. Where did the brains come from, he wondered.

He shook his head slightly, calling out to both of them. "I'm going to Frankie's. We'll probably be at my house later if you want to see her Scott." He didn't get an answer, leaving Scott and Ryan to fight out their mutual affection for each other as twins, walking out of the garage with Gracie. There was a loud clang of metal hitting metal when she closed the door.

Ryder winced at the sound. "I hope that wasn't the McLaren."

"I think we'd know. Ryan would have howled in agony."

He chuckled, shoving his hands into his pockets. A thought occurred to him; Gracie knew the Riggins family from way back. Her entire family was practically a part of theirs. "Hey…where do the brains come from?"

Gracie looked up at him, her face serious. She shrugged. "From the head. I don't know, what are you talking about?" She hopped up onto the porch, leading him into the house.

"The brains. Steve played for UT, got a full ride and graduated with a perfect GPA if I'm not mistaken. Scott's studying magnets and medical stuff at the North Pole for MIT and has a degree from Harvard, Frankie has a 180 IQ and can play just about any instrument under the sun, and TJ seems like he's on his way to being like that too." He shrugged. It ran in families, genius traits. Ryder thought highly of Steve's family, but Billy didn't show any signs of genius and Mindy had a good business mind, but she wasn't a genius. Lyla was brilliant, but again, he didn't think she was on that type of a spectrum like the kids. Not that he was either, but still. "Where does it come from? Just wondering if you knew someone like that in the family. It's a bit curious to me."

Not that it was any of his business, which he tended to keep to himself and let others keep theirs, but this was just…well he actually wanted to know. Gracie smiled a little, opening up a bottle of water. She set it on the counter and then placed her hands on her stomach, peering at him through a chunk of pale blonde hair that had fallen out of her messy topknot. "Well," she drawled. She lifted an eyebrow, her upper lip curving upwards in time with the eyebrow raise. "I'm not a Riggins expert. That would be Lyla, if you ever want to know. Or my dad, to a lesser extent, but…I asked Steve once, because our kid could be either really dumb or really smart and well…" She smiled and shrugged, her voice quiet. "I often wonder about Uncle Tim."

Tim? Ryder frowned. Genius? He wasn't so sure. "Really? He's smart, but…"

"Don't ask him about history or math or anything. It doesn't mean anything. The photographic memory is one thing and Frankie's instrument playing and Ryan's insane knowledge of engine parts and mechanics…he's an idiot, but he's got a talent. I think Uncle Tim is like that." Gracie smiled again, speaking quietly. "I wouldn't be surprised if it does run in the family and it happened to skip a generation with my in-laws, but Tim…I don't know. I think there's something there and well, Frankie is a lot like that too. She just…she's so freaking smart that it's kind of a curse, you know? She doesn't know how to act. The emotions. Just remember that."

That's the third or fourth time I've heard that, he thought, smiling quickly. "Yeah." He stood up straighter, reaching over to his hip where his radio was crackling. Better get back to work, he thought. "See you around Grace," he said, kissing her cheek and leaving. He turned the radio up a little louder, walking to his patrol car.

Maybe I'll stop and check on Frankie, he thought. He had work to do back at the station, but he wanted to talk to her about the State Championship tomorrow. Was she going to drive down to Austin tonight? Didn't she have to practice with her band? This was so short notice.

He drove through Dillon without really thinking, not noticing much of anything. It really didn't change. At one point he swore he saw his father, so he waved, and got a wave back, so maybe it was Luke. Or just someone waving at the sheriff. I really need to call them, he thought. He usually felt guilty when he let time go by without seeing or speaking with them. They were used to it, from when he would be deployed and often went weeks without communicating.

Several minutes after leaving Steve and Gracie's compound, he pulled the car into the short drive in front of Matt's bungalow. He climbed out, walking across the frosted front yard to the front door, which was cracked open slightly. You're letting the heat out, he silently complained, pushing it open carefully. He didn't call out; he could hear singing from the back of the house. It was fast, sounded like some sort of a party song, he thought, wrinkling his nose slightly. He supported Frankie at this point, but he didn't have to like the music. Besides, she didn't need him for a critic anyway. She'd just do the exact opposite he suggested.

He closed the door to stop the heat from escaping, slowly moving through the living room turned studio, stopping in the doorway to the kitchen. She was in a room set off from the kitchen, sitting on the corner of a bed, a computer open in front of her, music coming from it that sounded like a keyboard and bass. Frankie was playing her guitar, sitting in her lap, her voice calling out about high school sweethearts.

"You're my high school sweetheart, I'll never let you go," she said, her voice chopping up the lyrics. It was so smoky, he thought, very deep but she could sure hit the notes. Frankie banged her hand on the guitar, her eyes closed and her throat muscles cording and retracting as she belted out the song. "You're my high school sweetheart, I'll never let you go, you're my high school sweetheart, my hometown! You never let me down, all those times we shared…hopped on the back of a Harley, never turned my head, but you didn't say goodbye, even after I said see ya', I'm never gonna' back, I'm outta' here, not one more thought of you in my mind…"

How interesting, he thought, squinting slightly as she belted out more lyrics about her high school sweetheart. The town that didn't let her go, that was always going to be there when she needed it, her first love…it was good, he thought, as she sang about kissing under a tree, jumping off a dock, and simply being free. So it was also about a person, he judged. A first love.

I guess that's why I'm not a songwriter, he figured, when she slammed her hand down on the guitar for the last note, the music ending on the computer. "Bravo," he said, clapping his hand.

Frankie yelped, falling backwards on the bed, her guitar flying over her head. "Shit," she swore, quickly sitting back up, glaring angrily at him. "You ever think of knocking?! I could have been naked here!"

"I have seen you naked and I can assure you that I would have alerted you to my presence much sooner if that had been the case," he said, keeping his wit dry. He smiled darkly, while she smirked, trying poorly to hide her amusement. "See? I can joke."

"I'll alert the media."

"You do that." He glanced at the scattering of papers around the bed, couch, and floor. He knelt, picking one up and frowning. "What kind of a song is 'Hot Stuff'?" She tugged off the Noah Street jersey she was wearing, dropping it to the floor and turning around. Ryder didn't flinch when he saw she was completely topless. If that was her intention, she should know better, he thought, glancing back at the lyrics, reading through them. Sounded like a kid song, to be honest. "This looks like Disney or something." Frankie walked across the room in front of him, no longer wearing pants. Seriously? This is not going to work, he thought, focusing a little harder on the papers in his hands. He spoke, annoyed that his voice was slightly tighter than it had been before. "Are you working on a kid's album now?"

Frankie pulled on a clean t-shirt and stepped into a pair of pants; thank God, he thought, finally looking away from the papers. She shrugged a shoulder, buttoning up the jeans. "It sounds like Disney, because it is Disney. They've made me an offer to compose and write songs for their newest animated movie. It's about a fire princess or something." Whatever happened to giving up singing? Almost like she was reading his mind, she snatched the papers from his hands, folding them into a binder. "It was in the works before the album release. It seems my breakdown and the band deciding they'd had enough is working in favor of my career. People want to work with me individually. It's just something I'm considering."

He didn't say anything; if that was her choice, it was her choice. He shrugged. "Heard you're singing at the State Championship game tomorrow. You want to come over tonight and then we can leave together tomorrow morning?"

"Sure. Let me get some things." A few minutes later, she had a couple of bags in his car, along with her guitar and a bag of music and her drawing kit. She had her sketchbook on her knees and appeared to be drafting some sort of large sculpture. What did this woman not do when it came to music and art? She was going to work herself into an early grave with all the stress that seemed to come…wait…he frowned slightly, glancing sideways again.

That was the weird thing about it. She didn't seem stressed right now. All this work and she seemed…happy. He cleared his throat. "Do you like working?"

"I love it."

"Oh."

She arched an eyebrow, the pencil stopping on the page in front of her. She cleared her throat. "Dare I say it? Is Ryder Cafferty at a loss for words?" She smirked. "I'll really call the media now."

No, I'm not…he shook his head. It was just hard for him to truly comprehend. Maybe if I voice it out loud. Of course, I might sound like I am at a loss for words. "I'm just curious," he said, rolling his eyes when she mimicked his English accent on the word 'curious.' He continued, ignoring her childish behavior. "You left Los Angeles and the band because…"

"They kicked me out. Said I was losing my mind or something."

"Yes, of course, losing your mind, because you were trying to top the last album. Tell me Francesca, is that not the epitome of stress?" He turned his police car onto his street and came to a stop a moment later in front of the house. He released his seatbelt, glancing her direction again. It probably wasn't best to get into this in the car, but he was genuinely curious. "Then what is all this that you're doing now? Art and music and the new album and singing tomorrow at the State game? Doing the New Year's Eve New York thing too? A Disney movie? What next?" Your mother might be doing well, but you're still in Dillon and…and whatever this thing between us is…I'd like a definition at some point, but Ryder didn't say that. Baby steps.

She climbed out when he parked in his driveway beside his truck, looking over the top of the car, still holding the door open. "Ryder," she said, her voice calm.

"Yes?"

Frankie smirked, slamming the door shut. "It's nice that you care, but I can take care of myself. I've been doing it all my life." She turned around, going up and into the house, leaving the door open. Whether it was for him or because she forgot to shut it already, Ryder didn't know. He tended towards the latter.

I just care too much, he guessed, going into the house and closing the door behind im. He went upstairs to his room, took off all his police gear and locked his gun up in the safe beside his bed. He changed into an Army shirt and jeans, going downstairs and finding her sitting on the floor of the sunroom, scribbling out lyrics and her guitar in her lap. This was truly a common occurrence. He went out onto the porch, sitting in a chair and leaning over his knees, watching her.

She really did seem happy, he thought, observing how she moved; it was very fluid. A thought touched her mind and suddenly the pencil was on the page. The notebook was overflowing with little pieces of paper, words and notes jotted here and there. What a mind must be like for that, he wondered. It must be terribly consuming. Frankie glanced up, twisting her fingers around on her guitar. "Do you know how you fly helicopters?" she whispered.

"I used to fly," he corrected. His heart clenched. Stop that, he chided himself.

"It's like that, I guess. You do your thing and you've got all these things in your head to make sure you remember. It's like that. Writing music. Painting. You have numbers and equations and computations to remember for flying the helicopter and I have letters and notes and images in mine." Frankie set the guitar aside, standing up and walking over to sit in his lap, her arms draped around his neck. She brushed her lips over his, whispering. "Come to the game with me tomorrow."

And make our public debut? "I have to go, I'm providing escort service," he murmured.

She shrugged. "I'm providing the halftime show." She smiled, tapping his shoulder and leaning in to kiss him again. "I have a great set lined up. The kids are going to have a blast. I can't wait, it'll feel good to get out there…stretch my muscles again. I feel ready."

Good. I'm glad you're ready. He wrapped his arms tighter around her, a thought creeping into his mind. "Um…have you been bothered recently by…anyone?" Weird change of topic, I know, but Ryder wanted to make sure those two in the car he pulled over a couple days ago had continued to heed his warnings. Especially before they went to a state game and he was sure someone would pick up the story that exiled singer Frankie Garrity would be singing at a Texas High School State Championship game as a favor to her hometown.

She frowned, her voice thin. "No. Why?"

"Just curious."

They both stared at each other for a moment, neither giving in. Frankie pursed her lips. "What aren't you telling me?" she asked.

Nothing you don't need to know. "Nothing. You know all," he said, his eyes focused on hers. He squinted slightly, daring her to break first.

Her lips twitched. Finally, she smirked again. "I do know all." She climbed from his lap, patting his knee. "I'm going to find some food."

"I don't have your kind of food," he warned her, fully preparing for the whining when she found healthy and organic food in his fridge and not fried junk and chips and candy that she liked. He removed his phone from his pocket, hitting the speed dial for the station. He waited a moment until one of his deputies, Paul, picked up. "Hey, it's Ryder. Look, can you bump security tomorrow on Frankie? I just have a bad feeling, she's going to be so exposed at the stadium. I know they have their own, but it'll make me feel better." He listened to Paul complain a moment and then agree to do it. "Thanks man." He hung up and then called his mother. It rang a few times and she picked up, breathless. He frowned. "What are you doing Mom?'

"What are you doing Ryder?"

"Calling you."

"Well I'm talking to you. What's going on sweetheart? You know you've been ignoring me the last few weeks and I can't say I care for it very much. Frankie's been with Tim and Lyla almost everyday."

"Because Lyla had surgery, she was helping out, because they also have a six-year old to take care of."

Becky tsked, blowing that off. She took a deep breath. "So Ryder, I was talking with Jed Nelson, out at the airport and he said that they have a training helicopter…"

Ryder interrupted, already knowing where that conversation would lead. "Mom, I need you to hang out with Frankie tomorrow." He watched Frankie in the kitchen, keeping an eye on her and his voice down so she wouldn't overhear. He continued quickly. "It's just a thing, I just want you to make sure there's no…people that might get to her. You're good at telling people off too, so if they do get too close…"

"You care for her a great deal, don't you?"

I might be in love with her, but we'll not put labels on it right away, Ryder thought, lifting his thumbnail to between his teeth, nibbling slightly. It was a nervous tic he'd started when he was a kid. "Yes Mom, I care for her. She's a friend."

"Stop biting your thumbnail." He immediately let go, silently cursing. How did she know? "I'm a mother dear," Becky explained, without even explaining how she knew he was wondering. He sighed. She chuckled. "I'll help you out, but you better figure out what your feelings for her are. Tim told me she's going back to Los Angeles soon to tie up her loose ends. He's already making plans for her house, she wants to build out on the old Henderson horse ranch."

Really? I didn't know that, he thought, scowling. "Whatever," he mumbled. He said goodbye with his mother, before she could shrink him some more. He stood and went into the kitchen, leaning against the doorway while Frankie puttered around. Love, he thought, rolling his eyes. It wasn't love. It was…infatuation. Frankie infatuated him.

"You going to stand there and stare at me or help? This isn't 1950."

He rolled his eyes, pushing away. "No, it's not 1950 because otherwise you'd know how to cook. Give me that spoon, you're going to poke your eye out."

"Feisty," she said, grabbing him and kissing him quickly before letting go, sauntering off. Ryder sighed hard, shoving the spoon into the pot of vegetables she'd thrown together on the stove. Maybe she'll poison me and get it over with quickly, he thought, smiling slightly. Then we won't have to put labels on anything.


End file.
